LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
PAVIS 


THE 
VALE  OF  TEMPE 

POEMS 

BY 
MADISON  J.  CAWEIN 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  BUTTON  AND    COMPANY 

31  WEST  TWENTY-THIRD  STREET 
1905 


LIBRARY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
PAVIS 


Copyrighted  1905 

BY 
MADISON  J.  CAWEIN 


Published,  September,  1905 


I  wish  to  thank  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. ,  Harper  &  Brothers, 
The  Century  Co.,  Ess  Ess  Publishing  Co.,  The  Metropolitan 
Magazine  Co.,  J.  B.  Lippincott  Co.,  and  the  Bobbs  Merrill  Co., 
for  permission  to  reprint  a  number  of  the  poems  included  in  the 
present  volume. 


TO     GERTRUDE 


You  are  weary  of  reading: 
I  am  weary  of  song: 

The  one  is  misleading; 

The  other,  o'er  long:— 
All  Art  's  over  long. 

Ah,  would  it  were  ours 

To  leave  them,  and  then,. 

"Mid  the  fields  and  the  flowers, 
Be  children  again, 
Just  children  again. 


THE  VALE  OF  TEMPE 


THE  VALE  OF  TEMPE 


THE.;HYLAS 
i 

1  HEARD  the  hylas  in  the  bottomlands 
Piping  a  reed-note  in  the  praise  of  Spring: 
The  South-wind  brought  the  music  on  its  wing, 

As  't  were  a  hundred  strands 
Of  guttural  gold  smitten  of  elfin  hands; 
Or  of  sonorous  silver,  struck  by  bands, 

Anviled  within  the  earth, 
Of  laboring  gnomes  shaping  some  gem  of  worth. 

Sounds  that  seemed  to  bid 
The  wildflowers  wake; 
i 


2  THE   HYLAS 

Unclose  each  dewy  lid, 

And  starrily  shake 
Sleep  from  their  airy  eyes 

Beneath  the  loam, 
And,  robed  in  daedal  dyes, 

Frail  as  the  fluttering  foam, 
In  countless  myriads  rise. 

And  in  my  city  home 

I,  too,  who  heard 

Their  reedy  word, 
Awoke,  and,  with  my  soul,  went  forth  to  roam. 

II 

And  under  glimpses  of  the  cloud-white  sky 

My  soul  and  I 
Beheld  her  seated,  Spring  among  the  woods 

With  bright  attendants, 

Two  radiant  maidens, 

The  Wind  and  Sun:  one  robed  in  cadence, 

And  one  in  white  resplendence, 


THE   HYLAS 

Working  wild  wonders  with  the  solitudes. 

And  thus  it  was, 
So  it  seemed  to  me, 

Where  she  sat  apart 
Fondling  a  bee, 

By  some  strange  art, 
As  in  a  glass, 

Down  in  her  heart 
My  eyes  could  see 

What  would  come  to  pass: — 
How  in  each  tree, 

Each  blade  of  grass, — 
Dead  though  it  seemed, — 
Still  lived  and  dreamed 
Life  and  perfume, 
Color  and  bloom, 
Housed  from  the  North 
Like  golden  mirth, 

That  she  with  jubilation  would  bring  forth, 
Astonishing  Earth. 


4  THE   HYLAS 

III 

And  thus  it  was  I  knew 

That  though  the  trees  were  barren  of  all  buds, 
And  all  the  woods 

Of  blossoms  now,  still,  still  their  hoods 

And  heads  of  blue  and  gold, 
^And  pink  and  pearl  lay  hidden  in  the  mould; 
And  in  a  day  or  two, 

When  Spring's  fair  feet  came  twinkling  through 
The  trees,  their  gold  and  blue, 
And  pearl  and  pink  in  countless  bands  would 
rise, 

Invading  all  these  ways 
With  loveliness;  and  to  the  skies, 

In  radiant  rapture  raise 
The  fragile  sweetness  of  a  thousand  eyes. 
When  every  foot  of  soil  would  boast 

An  ambuscade 
Of  blossoms;  each  green  rood  parade 

Its  flowery  host; 


THE    HYLAS  5 

And  every  acre  of  the  woods, 
With  little  bird-like  beaks  of  leaves  and  buds, 
Brag  of  its  beauty;  making  bankrupts  of 
Our  hearts  of  praise,  and  beggar  us  of  love. 

IV 

Here,  when  the  snow  was  flying, 
And  barren  boughs  were  sighing, 

In  icy  January, 

I  stood,  like  some  gray  tree,  lonely  and  solitary. 
Now  every  spine  and  splinter 
Of  wood,  washed  clean  of  winter, 

By  hill  and  canyon 

Makes  of  itself  an  intimate  companion, 
A  confidant,  who  whispers  me  the  dreams 
That  haunt  its  heart,  and  clothe  it  as  with  gleams. 
And  lonely  now  no  more 
I  walk  the  mossy  floor 

Of  woodlands  where  each  bourgeoning  leaf  is 
matched, 


6  THE   HYLAS 

Mated  with  music;  triumphed  o'er 
Of  building  love  and  nestling  song  just  hatched. 


Washed  of  the  early  rains, 

And  rosed  with  ruddy  stains, 
The  boughs  and  branches  now  make  ready  for 
Their  raiment  green  of  leaves  and  musk  and 
myrrh. — 

As  if  to  greet  her  pomp, 

The  heralds  of  her  state, 
As  't  were  with  many  a  silvery  trump, 

The  birds  are  singing,  singing, 

And  all  the  world  's  elate, 
As  o'er  the  hills,  as  't  were  from  Heaven's  gate, 

With  garments,  dewy-clinging, 

Comes  Spring,  around  whose  way  the  budded 

woods  are  ringing 
With  redbird  and  with  bluebird  and  with  thrush; 

While,  overhead,  on  happy  wings  is  swinging 


THE   HYLAS  7 

The  swallow  through  the  heaven's  azure  hush: 
And  wren  and  sparrow,  vireo  and  crow 
Are  busy  with  their  nests,  or  high  or  low, 
In  every  tree,  it  seems,  and  every  bush. 

The  loamy  odor  of  the  turfy  heat, 
Breathed    warm    from    every    field    and    wood- 
retreat, 
Is  as  if  spirits  passed  on  flowery  feet: — 

That  indescribable 

Aroma  of  the  woods  one  knows  so  well, 
Reminding  one  of  sylvan  presences, 
Clad  on  with  lichen  and  with  moss, 
That  haunt  and  trail  across 
The    woods'    dim    dales    and    dells;    their   airy 

essences 

Of  racy  nard  and  musk 
Rapping  at  gummy  husk 

And  honeyed  sheath  of  every  leaf  and  flower, 
That  open  to  their  knock,  each  at  the  appointed 
hour: — 


8  THE   HYLAS 

And,  lo! 

Where'er  they  go, 

Behold  a  miracle 

Too  beautiful  to  tell!— 
Where  late  the  woods  were  bare 
The  red-bud  shakes  its  hair 
Of  flowering  flame;  the  dogwood  and  the  haw 

Dazzle  with  pearl  the  shaw; 
And  the  broad  maple  crimsons,  sunset-red. 
Through  firmaments  of  forest  overhead : 
And  of  its  boughs  the  wild-crab  makes  a  lair, 
A  rosy  cloud  of  blossoms,  for  the  bees, 

Bewildered  there, 

To  revel  in;  lulling  itself  with  these. 
And  in  the  whispering  woods 
The  wildflower  multitudes 
Rise,  star,  and  bell,  and  bugle,  all  amort 
To  everything  save  their  own  loveliness 

And  the  soft  wind's  caress, — 
The  wind  that  tip-toes  through  them : — liverwort, 


THE   HYLAS  9 

Spring-beauty, windflower  and  the  bleedingheart, 

And  bloodroot,  holding  low 

Its  cups  of  stainless  snow; 
Sorrel  and  trillium  and  the  twin-leaf,  too, 

Twinkling,  like  stars,  through  dew: 
And  patches,  as  it  were,  of  saffron  skies, 
Ranunculus;  and  golden  eyes 
Of  adder's-tongue;  and  mines, 
It  seems,  of  grottoed  gold,  the  poppy-celandines; 

And,  sapphire-spilled, 

Bluets  and  violets, 
Dark  pansy-violets  and  columbines, 

With  rainy  radiance  filled; 
And  many  more  whose  names  my  mind  forgets, 

But  not  my  heart: 
The  Nations  of  the  Flowers,  making  gay 

In  every  place  and  part, 

With  pomp  and  pageantry 
Of  absolute  Beauty,  all  the  worlds  of  woods, 
In  congregated  multitudes, 


10  THE   HYLAS 

Assembled  where 

Unearthly  colors  all  the  oaks  put  on, 
Velvet  and  silk  and  vair, 
Vermeil  and  mauve  and  fawn, 

Dim  and  auroral  as  the  hues  of  dawn. 


WIND    AND    CLOUD 

A  March  Voluntary 
I 

WINDS  that  cavern  heaven  and  the  clouds 

And  canyon  with  cerulean  blue, — 
Great   rifts   down    which   the   stormy    sunlight 

crowds 

Like  some  bright  seraph,  who, 
Mailed  in  intensity  of  silver  mail, 
Flashes  his  splendor  over  hill  and  vale, — 
Now  tramp,  tremendous,  the  loud  forest  through : 
Or  now,  like  mighty  runners  in  a  race, 

That  swing,  long  pace  to  pace, 
Sweep  'round  the  hills,  fresh  as,  at  dawn's  first 

start, 

ii 


12  WIND   AND   CLOUD 

They  swept,  dew-dripping,  from 
The  crystal-crimson  ruby  of  her  heart, 

Shouting  the  dim  world  dumb. 
And  with  their  passage  the  gray  and  green 

Of  the  earth  's  washed  clean; 
And  the  cleansing  breath  of  their  might  is  wings 

And  warm  aroma  we  know  as  Spring's, 
And  sap  and  strength  to  her  bourgeonings. 

II 

My  brow  I  bare 
To  the  cool,  clean  air, 
That  blows  from  the  crests  of  the  clouds  that 

roll, 

Pearl-piled  and  berged  as  floes  of  Northern  Seas, 
Banked  gray  and  thunder-low 
Big  in  the  heaven's  peace; 
Clouds,  borne  from  nowhere  that  we  know, 
With  nowhere  for  their  goal; 
With  here  and  there  a  silvery  glow 


WIND   AND   CLOUD  13 

Of  sunlight  chasming  deeps  of  sombre  snow, 

Great  gulfs  that  overflow 

With  sky,  a  sapphire-blue, 

Or  opal,  sapphire-kissed, 
Wide-welled  and  deep  and  swiftly  rifting  through 

Stratas  of  streaming  mist; — 

Each  opening  like  a  pool, 

Serene,  cerule, 

Set  'round  with  crag-like  clouds  'mid  which  its 
eye  gleams  cool. 

Ill 

What  blue  is  bluer  than  the  bluebird's  blue! — 

'T  is  as  if  heaven  itself  sat  on  its  wings; 
As  if  the  sky  in  miniature  it  bore 
The  fields  and  forests  through, 
Bringing  the  very  heaven  to  our  door; 
The  daybreak  of  its  back  soft-wedded  to 
The  sunset-auburn  of  its  throat  that  sings. — 
The  dithyrambics  of  the  wind  and  rain 


14  WIND   AND   CLOUD 

Strive  to,  but  cannot,  drown  its  strain : 

Again,  and  yet  again 
I  hear  it  where  the  maples  tassel  red, 
And  blossoms  of  the  crab  round  out  o'erhead, 
And  catkins  make  the  willow-brake 
A  gossamer  blur  around  the  lake 

That  lately  was  a  stream, 
A  little  stream  locked  in  its  icy  dream. 

IV 

Invisible  crystals  of  aerial  ring, 
Against  the  wind  I  hear  the  bluebird  fling 
Its  notes;  and  where  the  oak's  mauve  leaves  un 
curl 

I  catch  the  skyey  glitter  of  its  wing; 
Its  wing  that  lures  me,  like  some  magic  charm, 

Far  in  the  woods 

And  shadowy  solitudes: 

And  where  the  purple  hills  stretch  under  purple 
and  pearl 


WIND   AND   CLOUD  15 

Of  clouds  that  sweep  and  swirl, 
Its  music  seems  to  take  material  form; 
A  form  that  beckons  with  cerulean  arm 

And  bids  me  see  and  follow, 

Where,  in  the  violet  hollow, 

There  at  the  wood's  far  turn, 

On  starry  moss  and  fern, 

She    shimmers,    glimmering   like    a    rainbowed 
shower, 

The  Spirit  of  Spring, 

Diaphanous-limbed,  who  stands 

With  honeysuckle  hands 

Sowing  the  earth  with  many  a  firstling  flower, 
Footed  with  fragrance  of  their  blossoming, 
And  clad  in  heaven  as  is  the  bluebird's  wing. 


The  tumult  and  the  booming  of  the  trees, 
Shaken  with  shoutings  of  the  winds  of  March — 
No  mightier  music  have  I  heard  than  these, — 


1 6  WIND   AND   CLOUD 

The  rocking  and  the  rushing  of  the  trees, 
The  organ-thunder  of  the  forest's  arch. 
And  in  the  wind  their  columned  trunks  become, 
Each  one,  a  mighty  pendulum, 

Swayed  to  and  fro  as  if  in  time 
To  some  vast  song,  some  roaring  rhyme, 
Wind-shouted  from  sonorous  hill  to  hill. 

The  woods  are  never  still: 

The  dead  leaves  frenzy  by, 
Innumerable  and  frantic  as  the  dance 
That  whirled  its  madness  once  beneath  the  sky 
In  ancient  Greece, — like  withered  Corybants: 
And  I  am  caught  and  carried  with  their  rush, 

Their  countless  panic — borne  away, 
A  brother  to  the  wind,  through  the  deep  gray 
Of  the  old  beech-wood,  where  the  wild  March- 
day 

Sits  dreaming,  filling  all  the  boisterous  hush 
With  murmurous  laughter  and   swift   smiles  of 
sun; 


WIND   AND   CLOUD  I/ 

Conspiring  in  its  heart  and  plotting  how 
To  load  with  leaves  and  blossoms  every  bough, 
And  whispering  to  itself,  "Now  Spring  's  begun! 
And  soon  her  flowers  shall  golden  through  these 

leaves! — 

Away,  ye  sightless  things  and  sere! 
Make  room  for  that  which  shall  appear! 
The  glory  and  the  gladness  of  the  year; 
The  loveliness  my  eye  alone  perceives, — - 
Still  hidden  there  beneath  the  covering  leaves, — 
My  song  shall  waken ! — flowers,  that  this  floor 
Of  whispering  woodland  soon  shall  carpet  o'er 
For  my  sweet  sisters'  feet  to  tread  upon, 
Months  kinder  than  myself,  the  stern  and  strong, 

Tempestuous-loving  one, 
Whose  soul  is  full  of  wild,  tumultuous  song; 
And  whose  rough  hand  now  thrusts  itself  among 
The  dead  leaves;  groping  for  the  flowers  that  lie 
Huddled  beneath,  each  like  a  sleep-closed  eye: 

Gold  adder's-tongue  and  pink 


1 8  WIND   AND   CLOUD 

Oxalis;  snow-pale  bloodroot  blooms; 
May-apple  hoods,  that  parasol  the  brink, 
Screening  their  moons,  of  the  slim  woodland- 
stream  : 
And  the  wild  iris;  trillium, — white  as  stars, — 

And  bluebells,  dream  on  dream: 
With  harsh  hand  groping  in  the  glooms, 

I  grasp  their  slenderness  and  shake 

Their  lovely  eyes  awake, 

Dispelling  from  their  souls  the  sleep  that  mars; 
With  heart-disturbing  jars 
Clasping  their  forms,  and  with  rude  finger-tips, 

Through  the  dark  rain  that  drips 
Lifting  them  shrinking  to  my  stormy  lips. 

VI 

' '  Already  spicewood  and  the  sassafras, 

Like  fragrant  flames,  begin 

To  tuft  their  boughs  with  topaz,  ere  they  spin 
Their  beryl  canopies — a  glimmering  mass, 


WIND   AND   CLOUD  19 

Mist-blurred,  above  the  deepening  grass. 
Already  where  the  old  beech  stands 
Clutching  the  lean  soil  as  it  were  with  hands 
Taloned  and  twisted, — on  its  trunk  a  knot, 
A  huge  excrescence,  a  great  fungous  clot, 
Like  some  enormous  and  distorting  wart, — 
My  eyes  can  see  how,  blot  on  beautiful  blot 
Of  blue,  the  violets  blur  through 
The  musky  and  the  loamy  rot 
Of  leaf-pierced  leaves;  and,  heaven  in  their  hue, 
A  sunbeam  at  each  blossom's  heart, 
The  little  bluets,  crew  on  azure  crew, 
Prepare  their  myriads  for  invasion  too. 

VII 

"  And  in  my  soul  I  see  how,  soon,  shall  rise, — 

Still  hidden  to  men's  eyes, — 
Dim  as  the  wind  that  'round  them  treads, — 
Hosts  of  spring-beauties,  streaked  with  rosy  reds, 
And  pale  anemones,  whose  airy  heads, 


2O  WIND    AND    CLOUD 

As  to  some  fairy  rhyme, 
All  day  shall  nod  in  delicate  time: 
And  now,  even  now,  white  peal  on  peal 
Of  pearly  bells, — that  in  bare  boughs  conceal 
Themselves,  —  like     snowy    music,    chime    on 

chime, 
The  huckleberries  to  my  gaze  reveal — 

Clusters,  that  soon  shall  toss 

Above  this  green-starred  moss, 
That,  like  an  emerald  fire,  gleams  across 
This  forest-side,  and  from  its  moist  deeps  lifts 

Slim,  wire-like  stems  of  seed; 
Or,  lichen-colored,  glows  with  many  a  bead 
Of  cup-like  blossoms:  carpets  where,  I  read, 
When  through  the  night's  dark  rifts 
The  moonlight's  glimpsing  splendor  sifts, 
The  immaterial  forms 
With  moonbeam-beckoning  arms, 

Of  Fable  and  Romance, — 
Myths  that  are  born  of  whispers  of  the  wind 


WIND   AND   CLOUD  21 

And  foam  of  falling  waters,  music-twinned, — 

Shall  lead  the  legendary  dance; 
The  dance  that  never  stops, 
Of  Earth's  wild  beauty  on  the  green  hill-tops." 

VIII 

The  youth,  the  beauty  and  disdain 
Of  birth,  death  does  not  know, 
Compel  my  heart  with  longing  like  to  pain 
When  the  spring  breezes  blow. 

The  fragrance  and  the  heat 
Of  their  soft  breath,  whose  musk  makes  sweet 
Each  woodland  way,  each  wild  retreat, 
Seem  saying  in  my  ear,  "  Hark,  and  behold! 

Before  a  week  be  gone 
This  barren  woodside  and  this  leafless  wold 

A  million  flowers  shall  invade 

With  argent  and  azure,  pearl  and  gold, — 
Like  rainbow  fragments  scattered  of  the  dawn, — 

Here  making  bright,  here  wan 


22  WIND   AND   CLOUD 

Each  foot  of  earth,  each  glen  and  glimmering 

glade, 

Each  rood  of  windy  wood, 
Where  late  gaunt  Winter  stood, 
Shaggy  with  snow  and  howling  at  the  sky; 
Where  even  now  the  Springtime  seems  afraid 
To  whisper  of  the  beauty  she  designs, 
The  flowery  campaign  that  she  now  outlines 
Within  her  soul;  her  heart's  conspiracy 
To  take  the  world  with  loveliness ;  defy 
And   then  o'erwhelm   the   Death — that   Winter 

throned 

Amid  the  trees, — with  love  that  she  hath  owned 
Since  God  informed  her  of  His  very  breath, 
Giving  her  right  triumphant  over  Death. 
And,  irresistible, 

Her  heart's  deep  ecstasy  shall  swell, 
Taking  the  form  of  flower,  leaf,  and  blade, 
Invading  every  dell, 
And  sweeping,  surge  on  surge, 


WIND   AND   CLOUD  23 

Around  the  world,  like  some  exultant  raid, 

Even  to  the  heaven's  verge. 

Soon  shall  her  legions  storm 

Death's  ramparts,  planting  Life's  fair  standard 

there, 

The  banner  which  her  beauty  hath  in  care, 
Beauty,  that  shall  eventuate 
With  all  the  pomp  and  pageant  and  the  state, 
That  are  a  part  of  power,  and  that  wait 
On  majesty,  to  which  it,  too,  is  heir." 

IX 

Already  purplish  pink  and  green 

The  bloodroot's  buds  and  leaves  are  seen 

Clumped  in  dim  cirques;  one  from  the  other 

Hardly  distinguished  in  the  shadowy  smother 

Of  last  year's  leaves  blown  brown  between. 

And,  piercing  through  the  layers  of  dead  leaves, 

The  searching  eye  perceives 

The  dog's-tooth  violet,  pointed  needle-keen, 


24  WIND   AND   CLOUD 

Lifting  its  beak  of  mottled  green; 

While  near  it  heaves 

The  May-apple  its  umbrous  spike,  a  ball, — 

Like  to  a  round,  green  bean, 

That  folds  its  blossom, — topping  its  tight-closed 

parasol : 

The  clustered  bluebell  near 
Hollows  its  azure  ear, 
Low-leaning  to  the  earth  as  if  to  hear 
The  sound  of  its  own  growing  and  perfume 
Flowing  into  its  bloom : 
And  softly  there 
The  twin-leaf's  stems  prepare 
Pale  tapers  of  transparent  white, 
As  if  to  light 
The  Spirit  of  Beauty  through  the  wood's  green 

night. 

X 

Why  does  Nature  love  the  number  five? 
Five-whorled  leaves  and  five-tipped  flowers? — 


WIND  AND   CLOUD  25 

Haply  the  bee  that  sucks  i'  the  rose, 

Laboring  aye  to  store  its  hive, 

And  humming  away  the  long  noon  hours, 

Haply  it  knows  as  it  comes  and  goes: 

Or  haply  the  butterfly, 

Or  moth  of  pansy-dye, 

Flitting  from  bloom  to  bloom 

In  the  forest's  violet  gloom, 

It  knows  why: 
Or  the  irised  fly,  to  whom 
Each  bud,  as  it  glitters  near, 
Lends  eager  and  ardent  ear. — 

And  also  tell 

Why  Nature  loves  so  well 
To  prank  her  flowers  in  gold  and  blue. 

Haply  the  dew, 

That    lies    so    close    to    them   the    whole    night 
through, 

Hugged  to  each  honeyed  heart, 
Perhaps  the  dew  the  secret  could  impart : 


26  WIND   AND   CLOUD 

Or  haply  now  the  bluebird  there  that  bears, 

Glad,  unawares, 
God's  sapphire  on  its  wings, 

The  lapis-lazuli 

O'  the  clean,  clear  sky, 
The  heav'n  of  which  he  sings, 
Haply  he,  too,  could  tell  me  why: 
Or  the  maple  there  that  swings, 

To  the  wind's  soft  sigh, 

Its  winglets,  crystal  red, 
A  rainy  ruby  twinkling  overhead: 
Or  haply  now  the  wind,  that  breathes  of  rain 
Amid  the  rosy  boughs,  it  could  explain: 
And  even  now,  in  words  of  mystery, — 
That  haunt  the  heart  of  me, — 
Low-whispered,  dim  and  bland, 
Tells  me,  but  tells  in  vain, 
And  strives  to  make  me  see  and  understand, 
Delaying  where 
The  feldspar  fire  of  the  violet  breaks, 


WIND   AND   CLOUD  2? 

And  the  starred  myrtle  aches 

With   heavenly  blue;  and  the   frail  windflower 

shakes 
Its  trembling  tresses  in  the  opal  air. 


IN   SOLITARY    PLACES 
I 

THE  hurl  and  hurry  of  the  winds  of  March, 
That  tore  the  ash  and  bowed  the  pine  and  larch, 
Are  past  and  done  with : — winds,  that  trampled 

through 

The  forests  with  enormous,  scythe-like  sweep, 
And  from  the  darkening  deep, 
The  battlements  of  heaven,  thunder-blue, 
Rumbled  the  arch, 

The  rocking  arch  of  all  the  booming  oaks, 
With  stormy  chariot-spokes; 
Chariots  from  which  wild  bugle-blasts  they  blew, 
Their  warrior  challenge.    .    .    .    Now  the  wind- 
flower  sweet 
Misses  the  fury  of  their  ruining  feet, 

28 


IN   SOLITARY   PLACES  29 

The  trumpet-thunder  of  resistless  flight, 

Crashing  and  vast,  obliterating  light; 

Sweeping  the  skeleton  cohorts  down 

Of  last  year's  leaves;  and,  overhead, 

Hurrying  the  giant  foliage  of  night, 

Gaunt  clouds  that  streamed  with  tempest. — Now 

each  crown 

Of  woods  that  stooped  to  clamor  of  their  tread, 
The  frenzy  of  their  passage,  stoops  no  more, 
Hearing  no  more  their  clarion-command, 
Their  chariot-hurl  and  the  wild  whip  in  hand. 
No  more,  no  more, 
The  forests  rock  and  roar 
And  tumult  with  their  shoutings.    .   .    .    Hushed 

and  still 

Is  the  green-gleaming  and  the  sunlit  hill, 
Along  whose  sides, 

Flushing  the  dewy  moss  and  rainy  grass — 
Beneath  the  topaz-tinted  sassafras, 
As  aromatic  as  some  orient  wine — 


3O  IN   SOLITARY   PLACES 

The  violet  fire  of  the  bluet  glides, 

The  amaranthine  flame 

Glints  of  the  bluebell;  and  the  celandine, 

Line  upon  lovely  line, 

Deliberate  goldens  into  birth; 

And,  ruby  and  rose,  the  moccasin-flower  hides: 

Innumerable  blooms,  with  which  she  writes  her 

name, 

April,  upon  the  page, 

The  winter-withered  parchment  of  old  Earth, 
Her  fragrant  autograph  that  gives  it  worth 
And  loveliness  that  takes  away  its  age. 

II 

Here  where  the  woods  are  wet, 

The  blossoms  of  the  dog's-tooth  violet 

Seem  meteors  in  a  miniature  firmament 

Of  wildflowers,   where,   with   rainy   sound    and 

scent 
Of  breeze  and  blossom,  soft  the  April  went: 


IN   SOLITARY   PLACES  31 

Their  tongue-like  leaves  of  umber-mottled  green, 

So  thickly  seen, 

Seem  dropping  words  of  gold, 

The  visible  syllables  of  a  magic  old. 

Beside  them,  near  the  wahoo-bush  and  haw, 

Blooms  the  hepatica; 

Its  slender  flowers  upon  swaying  stems 

Lifting  pale,  solitary  blooms, 

Starry,  and  twilight-colored, — like  frail  gems, 

That  star  the  diadems 

Of  sylvan  spirits,  piercing  pale  the  glooms; — 

Or  like  the  wands,  the  torches  of  the  fays, 

That  light  lone,  woodland  ways 

With  slim,  uncertain  rays: — 

(The  faery  people,  whom  no  eye  may  see, 

Busy,  so  legend  says, 

With  budding  bough  and  leafing  tree, 

The  blossom's  heart  o'  honey  and  honey-sack 

o'  the  bee, 
And  all  dim  thoughts  and  dreams, 


32  IN   SOLITARY   PLACES 

That  take  the  form  of  flowers,  as  it  seems, 
And  haunt  the  banks  of  greenwood  streams, 
Showing  in  every  line  and  curve, 
Commensurate  with  our  love,  and  intimacy, 
A  smiling  confidence  or  sweet  reserve.) 

There  at  that  leafy  turn 

Of  trailered  rocks,  rise  fronds  of  hart's-tongue 

fern: 

Fronds  that  my  fancy  names 
Uncoiling  flames 
Of  feathering  emerald  and  gold, 
That,  kindled  in  the  musky  mould, 
Now,  stealthily  as  the  morn,  unfold 
Their  cool  green  fires  that  burn 
Uneagerly,  and  spread  around 
An  elfin  light  above  the  ground, 
Like  that  green  glow 

A  spirit,  lamped  with  crystal,  makes  below 
In  dripping  caves  of  labyrinthine  moss. 


IN   SOLITARY   PLACES  33 

And  in  the  underwoods,  around  them,  toss 

The  white-hearts  with  their  penciled  leaves, 

That  'mid  the  shifting  gleams  and  glooms, 

The  interchanging  shine  and  shade, 

Seem  some  vague  garment  made 

By  unseen  hands  that  weave,  that  none  perceives; 

Pale  hands  that  work  invisible  looms, 

Now  dropping  shreds  of  light, 

Now  shadow-shreds,  that  interbraid 

And  form  faint  colors  mixed  with  frail  perfumes. 

Or,  are  they  fragments  left  in  flight, 

These  flowers  that  scatter  every  glade 

With  windy,  beckoning  white, 

And  breezy  blowing  blue, 

Of  her  wild  gown  that  shone  upon  my  sight, 

A  moment,  in  the  woods  I  wandered  through? 

April's,  whom  still  I  follow, 

Whom  still  my  dreams  pursue; 

Who  leads  me  on  by  many  a  tangled  clue 

Of  loveliness,  until,  in  some  green  hollow, 

3 


34  IN   SOLITARY   PLACES 

Born  of  her  fragrance  and  her  melody, 
But  lovelier  than  herself  and  happier,  too, 
Cradled  in  blossoms  of  the  dogwood-tree, 
My  soul  shall  see — 

White  as  a  sunbeam  in  the  heart  of  day — 
The  infant,  May. 

Ill 

Up,  up,  my  Heart,  and  forth,  where  none  per 
ceives  ! 

'T  was  this  that  that  sweet  lay  meant 
You  heard  in  dreams. — 
Come,  let  us  take  rich  payment, 
For  every  care  that  grieves, 

From  Nature's  prodigal  purse.     'T  was  this  that 
I 

May  meant 

By  sending  forth  that  wind  which  'round  our 

eaves 
Whispered  all  night. — Or  was  't  the  Spirit  who 

weaves, 


IN   SOLITARY   PLACES  35 

From  gold  and  glaucous  green  of  early  leaves, 
Spring's  radiant  raiment? — 
Up,  up,  my  Heart,  and  forth,  where  none  per 
ceives! 

I 

Come,    let   us    forth,    my   Heart,    where    none 

divines! 

Into  far  woodland  places, 

Where  we  may  meet  the  fair,  assembled  races, 
Beneath  the  guardian  pines, 
Of  God's  first  flowers: — poppy-celandines, 
And  wake-robins  and  bugled  columbines, 
With    which    her   hair,    her   heavenly   hair   she 

twines, 

And  loops  and  laces.— 
Come  let  us  forth,  my  Heart,  where  none  divines! 

Forth,    forth,    my    Heart,    and  let    us    find   our 

dreams, 
There  where  they  haunt  each  hollow! 


36  IN   SOLITARY   PLACES 

Dreams,  luring  us  with  Oread  feet  to  follow, 
With  flying  feet  of  beams, 
Fleeter  and  lighter  than  the  soaring  swallow: 
Dreams,    holding    us    with   Dryad   glooms    and 

gleams; 

With  Naiad  looks,  far  stiller  than  still  streams, 
That  have  beheld  and  still  reflect,  it  seems, 
The  God  Apollo.— 
Forth,    forth,    my   Heart,    and    let   us   find   our 

dreams! 

Out,   out  my  Heart!    the  world  is  white  with 

spring. 

Long  have  our  dreams  been  pleaders: 
Now  let  them  be  our  firm  but  gentle  leaders. 
Come,  let  us  forth  and  sing 
Among  the  amber-emerald-tufted  cedars, 
And  balm-o'-Gileads,  cottonwoods, — a-swing 
Like  giant  censers, — that  from  leaf-cusps  fling 
Balsams  of  gummy  gold,  bewildering 


IN   SOLITARY   PLACES  37 

The  winds  their  feeders. — 

Out,   out,   my   Heart!  the  world  is  white  with 
spring. 

Up,  up,  my  Heart,  and  all  thy  hope  put  on! 

Array  thyself  in  splendor! 

Like    some    bright    dragonfly,     some     May-fly 

slender, 

The  irised  lamels  don 

Of  thy  new  armor;  and,  where  burns  the  centre, 
Refulgent,  of  the  widening  rose  of  dawn, 
Spread  thy  wild  wings !  and,  ere  the  hour  be  gone, 
Bright  as  a  blast  from  some  bold  clarion, 
Thy  Dream-world  enter! — 
Up,  up,  my  heart,  and  all  thy  hope  put  on ! 

IV 

And  then  I  heard  it  singing, — 
The  wind  that  kissed  my  hair, — 
A  song  of  wild  expression, 


38  IN   SOLITARY   PLACES 

A  song  that  called  in  session 
The  wildflowers  there  up-springing, 
The  wildflowers  lightly  flinging 
Their  tresses  to  the  air. 

And  first  the  bloodroot-blooms  of  March 
In  troops  arose;  each  with  its  torch 
Of  hollow  snow,  within  which,  bright, 
The  calyx  grottoed  golden  light. 

Hepatica  and  bluet, 
And  gold  corydalis, 
Rose,  swaying  to  the  aria; 
While  phlox  and  dim  dentaria 
In  rapture,  ere  they  knew  it, 
Oped,  nodding  lightly  to  it, 
Faint  as  a  first  star  is. 

And  then  a  music, — to  the  ear 
Inaudible, — I  seemed  to  hear; 


IN   SOLITARY   PLACES  39 

A  symphony  that  seemed  to  rise 
And  speak  in  colors  to  the  eyes. 

I  saw  the  Jacob's-Ladder 

Ring  violet  peal  on  peal 

Of  perfume,  azure-swinging; 

The  bluebell  slimly  ringing 

Its  purple  chimes;  and  gladder, 

Green  note  on  note,  the  madder 

Bells  of  the  Solomon 's-seal. 

Now  far  away;  now  near;  now  lost, 
I  saw  their  fragrant  music  tossed, 
Mixed  dimly  with  white  interludes 
Of  trilliums  starring  cool  the  woods. 

Then  choral,  solitary, 

I  saw  the  celandine 

Smite  bright  its  golden  cymbals; 

The  starwort  shake  its  timbrels; 

The  whiteheart's  horns  of  Faery, 


40  IN   SOLITARY    PLACES 

With  many  a  flourish  airy, 
Strike  silvery  into  line. 

And  straight  my  soul  they  seemed  to  draw, 

By  chords  of  loveliness  and  awe, 

Into  a  Faery  World  afar, 

Where  all  man's  dreams  and  longings  are. 


Then  the  face  of  a  spirit  looked  down  at  me 

Out  of  the  deeps  of  the  opal  morn : 

Its  eyes  were  blue  as  a  sunlit  sea, 

And  young  with  the  joy  of  a  star  that  has  just 

been  born : 
And  I  seemed  to  hear,  with  my  soul,  the  rose  of 

its  cool  mouth  say: — 

'  Long  I  lay;  long  I  lay, 
Low  on  the  Hills  of  the  Break-of-Day, 
Where  ever  the  light  is  green  and  gray, 


IN   SOLITARY    PLACES  4! 

And  the  gleam  of  the  moon  is  a  silvery  spray, 
And  the  stars  are  glimmering  bubbles: 
Now  from  the  Hills  of  the  Break-of-Day 
I  come,  I  come,  on  a  rainbow  ray, 
To  laugh  and  sparkle,  to  leap  and  play, 
And  blow  from  the  face  of  the  world  away, 
Like  mists,  its  cares  and  troubles." 

VI 

And  now  that  the  dawn  is  everywhere 

Let  us  take  this  road  through  this  wild  green 

place, 
Where    the    rattlesnake-weed    shows   its  yellow 

face, 

And  the  lichens  cover  the  rocks  with  lace: 
Where  tannin-touched  is  the  wild  free  air, 
Let  us  take  this  path  through  the  oaks  where 

thin 

The  low  leaves  whisper,  "  The  day  is  fair," 
And  waters  murmur,  "  Come  in,  come  in! 


42  IN   SOLITARY   PLACES 

Where  the  wind  of  our  foam  can  play  with  your 

hair 
And  blow  away  care." 

Berry  blossoms  that  seem  to  flow 

As  the  winds  blow; 

Blackberry  blossoms  swing  and  sway 

To  and  fro 

Along  our  way, 

Like  ocean  spray  on  a  breezy  day, 

Over  the  green  of  the  grass  as  foam  on  the  green 

of  a  bay 
When   the  world  is   white  and  green  with  the 

white  and  the  green  of  May. 

And  here  the  bluets  blooming 

Make  little  eyes  at  you ; 

O'er  which  the  bees  go  booming, 

Drunk  with  the  honey-dew.— 

O  slender  Quaker-ladies, 

O  star-bright  Quaker-ladies, 


IN   SOLITARY   PLACES  43 

With  eyes  of  heavenly  blue, 
With  eyes  of  azure  hue, — 
Who,  where  the  mossy  shade  is, 
Hold  quiet  Quaker-meeting, — 
Are  these  your  serenaders? 
Your  gold-hipped  serenaders, 
Who,  humming  love-songs  true, 
And  to  your  eyes  repeating 
Soft  ballads,  stop  to  woo? 
Then  change  to  ambuscaders, 
To  gold  galloone"d  raiders, 
And  rob  the  hearts  of  you, 
The  golden  hearts  of  you. 

And  here  the  bells  of  the  huckleberries  toss,  so 
it  seems,  in  time, 

Delicate,  tenderly  white,  clumped  by  the  wild- 
wood  way, 

Swinging,  it  seems,  inaudible  peals  of  a  dew- 
clustered  rhyme, 


44  IN   SOLITARY   PLACES 

Visible  music,  dropped  from  the  virginal  lips  of 

the  May, 
Crystally  dropped,  so  it  seems,  blossoming  bar 

upon  bar, 
Pendent,  pensively  pale,  star  upon  hollowed  star. 

VII 

The  dewberries  are  blooming  now; 

The  days  are  long,  the  nights  are  short: 

Each  dogwood  and  each  black-haw  bough 

Is  bleached  with  bloom,  and  seems  a  part, — 

Reflected  palely  on  her  brow, — 

Of  dreams  that  haunt  the  Year's  young  heart. 

But  this  will  pass;  and  instantly 
The  world  forget  the  spring  that  was; 
And  underneath  the  wild-plum  tree, 
'Mid  hornet  hum  and  wild-bee's  buzz, 
Summer,  in  dreamy  reverie, 
Will  sit,  all  warm  and  amorous. 


IN    SOLITARY   PLACES  45 

Summer,  with  drowsy  eyes  and  hair, 
Who  walks  the  orchard  aisles  between; 
Whose  hot  touch  tans  the  freckled  pear, 
And  crimsons  peach  and  nectarine; 
And  in  the  vineyard  everywhere 
Bubbles  with  blue  the  grape's  ripe  green. 

Where  now  the  briers  blossoming  are 
Soon  will  the  berries  darkly  glow; 
Then  summer  pass:  and,  star  on  star, 
Where  now  the  grass  is  strewn  below 
With  blossoms,  soon,  both  near  and  far, 
Will  lie  th'  obliterating  snow. 

The  star-flower,  now  that  discs  with  gold 

The  woodland  moss,  the  forest  grass, 

Already  in  a  day  is  old, 

Already  doth  its  beauty  pass; 

Soon,  undistinguished,  with  the  mould 

'T  will  mingle  and  will  mix,  alas! 


46  IN   SOLITARY   PLACES 

The  bluet,  too,  that  spreads  its  skies, 
Diminutive  heavens,  at  our  feet; 
And  crowfoot-bloom,  that,  with  orbed  eyes 
Of  amber,  now  our  eyes  doth  greet, 
Shall  fade  and  pass,  and  none  surmise 
How  once  they  made  the  Maytime  sweet. 

VIII 

But  still  the  crowfoot  trails  its  gold 

Along  the  edges  of  the  oak  wood  old; 

And  still,  where  spreads  the  water,  white  are  seen 

The  lilies  islanded  between 

The  pads  'round  archipelagoes  of  green; 

The  jade-dark  pads  that  pave 

The  water's  wrinkled  wave, 

In  which  the  warbler  and  the  sparrow  lave 

Their  fluttered  breasts  and  wings; 

Preening  their  backs,  with  many  twitterings, 

With  necks  the  moisture  streaks; 

Then  dipping  deep  their  beaks, 


IN   SOLITARY   PLACES  47 

To  which  some  bead  of  liquid  coolness  clings, 
As  bending  back  their  mellow  throats 
They  let  the  freshness  trickle  into  notes. 
And  now  you  hear 

The  red-capped  woodpecker  rap  close  and  clear; 
And  now  that  acrobat, 
The  yellow-breasted  chat, 
Chuckles  his  grotesque  music  from 
Some  tree  that  he  hath  clomb. 
And  now,  and  now, 
Upon  a  locust  bough, 
Hark  how  the  honey-throated  thrush 
Scatters  the  forest's  emerald  hush 
With  notes  of  golden  harmony, 
Taking  the  woods  with  witchery — 
Or  is  't  some  spirit  none  may  see, 
Hid  in  the  top  of  yonder  tree, 
Who,  in  his  house  of  leaves,  of  haunted  green, 
Keeps   trying,   silver-sweet,   his   sunbeam   flute 
serene? 


48  IN   SOLITARY   PLACES 

IX 

Again  the  spirit  looked  down  at  me 

Out  of  the  sunset's  ruin  of  gold; 

Its  eyes  were  dark  as  a  moonless  sea, 

And  grave  with  the  grief  of  a  star  that  with  sor 
row  is  old: 

And  I  seemed  to  hear,  with  my  soul,  the  flame 
of  its  sad  mouth  sigh: — 

"  Now  good-by!  now  good-by! 

Down  to  the  Caves  of  the  Night  go  I : 

Where  a  shadowy  couch  of  the  purple  sky, 

That  the  moon-  and  the  starlight  curtain  high, 

Is  spread  for  my  joy  and  sorrow: 

Down  to  the  Caves  of  the  Night  go  I, 

Where  side  by  side  in  mystery 

With  all  the  Yesterdays  I  '11  lie; 

And  where,  from  my  body,  before  I  die, 

Will  be  born  the  young  To-morrow." 


IN   SOLITARY   PLACES  49 


And  now  that  the  dusk  draws  down  you  see, 
Tipped  by  the  weight  of  a  passing  bee, 
The  milkwort's  spike  of  blue, 
Of  lavender  hue, 

Nod  like  a  goblin  night-cap,  slim,  sedate, 
That  night  shall  tassel  with  the  dew, 
Beneath  its  canopy  of  flowering  rue. 
And  now,  as  twilight's  purple  state 
Deepens  the  oaks'  dark  vistas  through, 
The  owlet's  cry  of  "  Who,  oh,  who, 
Who  walks  so  late?  " 
Drifts  like  a  challenge  down  to  you. 

Or  there  on  the  twig  of  the  oak-tree  tall, 
The  gray-green  egg  in  the  gray-green  gall, 
You,  too,  might  hear  if  you,  too,  would  try, 
Might  hear  it  open;  all  tinily 
Split,  and  the  little  round  worm  and  white, 
That  grows  to  a  gnat  in  a  summer  night, 

4 


50  IN   SOLITARY   PLACES 

Uncurl  in  its  nest  as  it  dreams  of  flight: 

In  the  heart  of  the  weed  that  grows  near  by, 

The  little  gray  worm  that  becomes  a  fly, 

A  green  wood-fly,  a  rainbowed  fly, 

You,  too,  might  hear  if  you,  too,  would  try, 

As  a  leaf-bud  pushes  from  forth  a  tree, 

Minute  of  movement,  steadily, 

As  it  feels  a  yearning  for  wings  begin, 

Under  the  milk  of  its  larval  skin 

The  silent  pressure  of  wings  within. 

The  west  grows  ashen,  the  woods  grow  beryl- 
wan; 

The  redbird  lifts  its  plaintive  vesper-song, 
Where  faint  a  fox  or  rabbit  steals  along: 
And  in  some  vine-roofed  hollow,  far  withdrawn, 
The  creek-frog  sounds  his  deeply  guttural  gong, 
As  dusk  comes  on: — 
The  water's  gnarled  dwarf  or  gnome, 
Seated  upon  his  temple's  oozy  dome, 


IN   SOLITARY   PLACES  51 

Calling  the  faithful  unto  prayer, 
Muezzin-like,  the  worshippers  of  the  moon, 
The  insect-folk  of  earth  and  air 
That  join  him  in  his  twilight  tune. — 

Along  the  path  where  the  lizard  hides, 
An  instant  shadow,  the  spider  glides, 
The  hairy  spider  that  haunts  the  way, 
Crouching  black  by  its  earth-bored  hole, 
An  insect-ogre,  that  lairs  with  the  mole, 
Hungry,  seeking  its  insect  prey, 
Fast  to  follow  and  swift  to  slay. 
And  over  your  hands  and  over  your  face 
The  cobweb  brushes  its  phantom  lace: 
And  now  from  many  a  stealthy  place, 
Woolly-winged  and  gossamer-gray, 
The  woodland  moths  come  fluttering, 
Marked  and  mottled  with  lichen  hues, 
Seal-soft  umbers  and  downy  blues, 
Dark  as  the  bark  to  which  they  cling. 


52  IN   SOLITARY   PLACES 

Now  in  the  hollow  of  a  hill, — 

Like  a  glow-worm  held  in  a  giant  hand, — 

Under   the  sunset's  last  red  band, 

And  one  star  hued  like  a  daffodil, 

The  windowed  lamp  of  a  cabin  glows,— 

The  charcoal-burner's,  whose  hut  is  poor, 

But  ever  open;  beside  whose  door 

An  oak  grows  gnarled  and  a  pine  stands  slim. 

Clean  of  heart  and  of  feature  grim, 

Here  he  houses  where  no  one  knows, 

His  only  neighbors  the  cawing  crows 

That  make  a  roost  of  the  pine's  top  limb; 

His  only  friend  the  fiddle  he  bows 

As  he  sits  at  his  door  in  the  eve's  repose, 

Making  it  chuckle  and  sing  and  speak, 

Lovingly  pressed  to  his  swarthy  cheek. 

And  over  many  a  root,  through  ferns  and  weeds, 
Past  lonely  places  where  the  raccoon  breeds, 
By  many  a  rock  and  water  lying  dim, 


IN   SOLITARY    PLACES  53 

Roofed  with  the  brier  and  the  bramble-rose, 
Under  a  star  and  the  new-moon's  rim, 
Downward  the  wood-way  leads  to  him, 
Down  where  the  lone  lamp  gleams  and  glows, 
A  pencil  slim 
Of  marigold  light  under  leaf  and  limb. 

XI 

Ere  that  small  sisterhood  of  misty  stars, 
The  Pleiades,  consents  to  grace  the  sky; 
While  yet  through  sunset's  tiger-tawny  bars 
The  evening-star  shines  downward  like  an  eye, 
A  torch,  Enchantment,  in  her  topaz  tower 
Of  twilight,  kindles  at  the  Day's  last  hour, 
Listen,  and  you  may  hear,  now  low,  now  high, 
A  voice,  a  spirit,  dreamier  than  a  flower. 

There  is  a  fellowship  so  still  and  sweet, 
A  brotherhood,  that  speaks,  unwordable, 
In  every  tree,  in  every  flower  you  meet, 


54  IN   SOLITARY   PLACES 

The  soul  is  fain  to  sit  beneath  its  spell. — 
And  heart-admitted  to  their  presence  there, 
Those  intimacies  of  the  earth  and  air, 
It  shall  hear  words,  too  wonderful  to  tell, 
Too  deep  to  interpret,  of  unspoken  prayer. 

And  you  may  see  the  things  no  eyes  have  seen, 
And  hear  the  things  no  ears  have  ever  heard ; 
The  Murmur  of  the  Woods,  in  gray  and  green, 
Will  lean  to  you,  its  soul  a  whispered  word; 
Or  by  your  side,  in  hushed  and  solemn  wise, 
The  Silence  sit;  and,  clothed  in  glimmering  dyes 
Of  pearl  and  purple,  herding  bee  and  bird, 
The  Dusk  steal  by  you  with  her  shadowy  eyes. 

Then  through  the  Ugliness  that  toils  in  night, 
Uncouth,  obscure,  that  hates  the  glare  of  day, 
The  things  that  pierce  the  earth  and  know  no 

light, 
And  hide  themselves  in  clamminess  and  clay, — 


IN   SOLITARY   PLACES  55 

The  dumb,  ungainly  things,  that  make  a  home 
Of  mud  and  mire  they  hill  and  honeycomb, — 
Through  these,  perhaps,  in  some  mysterious  way, 
Beauty  may  speak  fairer  than  wind-blown  foam. 

Not  as  it  speaks,  an  eagle  message,  drawn 

From  starry  vastness  of  night's  labyrinths: 

Not  uttering  itself  from  out  the  dawn 

In  egret  hues;  nor  from  the  cloud-built  plinths 

Of  sunset's  splendor, — speaking  burningly 

Unto  the  spirit; — nor  all  flowery 

From  cygnet-colored  cymes  of  hyacinths, — 

But  from  the  things  that  type  humility. 

From  things  despised: — even  from  the  crawfish 

there, 

Hollowing  its  house  of  ooze — a  wet,  vague  sound 
Of  sleepy  slime ;  or  from  the  mole,  whose  lair, 
Blind-tunnelled,  corridores  the  earth  around, 
Beauty  may  draw  her  truths,  as  draws  its  wings 


56  IN   SOLITARY   PLACES 

The  butterfly  from  the  dull  worm  that  clings, 
Cocoon  and  chrysalis;  and  from  the  ground 
Address  the  soul  through  even  senseless  things. 

For  oft  my  soul  hath  heard  the  trees'  huge  roots 
Fumble  the  darkness,  clutching  at  the  soil; 
Hath  heard  the  green  beaks  of  th'  imprisoned 

shoots 

Peck  at  the  boughs  from  which  the  leaves  uncoil ; 
Hath  heard  the  buried  germ  soft  split  its  pod, 
Groping  its  blind  way  up  to  light  and  God; 
The  mushroom,  laboring  with  gnome-like  toil, 
Heave  slow  its  white  orb  through  the  encircling 

sod. 

The  winds  and  waters,  stars  and  streams  and 

flowers, 
The  earth  and  rocks,  each  moss-tuft  and  each 

fern, 
The  very  lichens  speak. — This  world  of  ours 


IN    SOLITARY   PLACES  57 

Is  eloquent  with  things  that  bid  us  learn 
To  pierce  appearances,  and  so  to  mark, 
Within  the  stone  and  underneath  the  bark, — 
Heard  through  some  inward  sense, — the  dreams 

that  turn 
Outward  to  light  and  beauty  from  the  dark. 

XII 

I  stood  alone  in  a  mountain  place, 

And  it  came  to  pass,  as  I  gazed  on  space, 

That  I  met  with  Mystery,  face  to  face. 

Within  her  eyes  my  wondering  soul  beheld 

The  eons  past,  the  eons  yet  to  come, 

At  cosmic  labor;  and  the  stars, — that  swelled, 

Fiery  or  nebulous,  from  the  darkness  dumb, 

In  each  appointed  place  and  period, — 

I  saw  were  words,  whose  hieroglyphic  sum 

Blazoned  one  word,  the  mystic  name  of  God. 


58  IN   SOLITARY    PLACES 

I  walked  alone  'mid  the  forest's  maze, 
And  it  came  to  pass,  as  I  went  my  ways, 
That  I  met  with  Beauty,  face  to  face. 

Within  her  eyes  my  worshipping  spirit  saw 
The   moments  busy   with    the    dreams    whence 

spring 

Earth's  loveliness:  and  all  fair  things  that  awe 
Man's  soul  with  their  perfection — everything 
That  buds  and  bourgeons,  blossoming  above, — 
I  saw  were  letters  of  enduring  Law 
That  bloomed  one  word,  the  beautiful  name  of 

Love. 


WHIPPOORWILL   TIME 

LET  down  the  bars;  drive  in  the  cows: 
The  west  is  barred  with  burning  rose. 
Unhitch  the  horses  from  the  ploughs, 
And  from  the  cart  the  ox  that  lows, 
And  light  the  lamp  within  the  house: 
The  whippoorwill  is  calling, 

"  Whippoorwill,  whippoorwill," 
Where  the  locust  blooms  are  falling 

On  the  hill; 

The  sunset's  rose  is  dying, 
And  the  whippoorwill  is  crying, 
"  Whippoorwill,  whippoorwill  "  ; 

Soft,  now  shrill, 
The  whippoorwill  is  crying, 
"  Whippoorwill." 
59 


60  WHIPPOORWILL  TIME 

Unloose  the  watch-dog  from  his  chain : 

The  first  stars  wink  their  drowsy  eyes: 
A  sheep-bell  tinkles  in  the  lane, 

And  where  the  shadow  deepest  lies 
A  lamp  makes  bright  the  window-pane: 
The  whippoorwill  is  calling, 

"  Whippoorwill,  whippoorwill," 
Where  the  berry-blooms  are  falling 

On  the  rill; 

The  first  faint  stars  are  springing, 
And  the  whippoorwill  is  singing, 

"  Whippoorwill,  whippoorwill  "  ; 

Softly  still 

The  whippoorwill  is  singing, 
"Whippoorwill." 

The  cows  are  milked ;  the  cattle  fed ; 

The  last  far  streaks  of  evening  fade: 
The  farm-hand  whistles  in  the  shed, 

And  in  the  house  the  table  's  laid; 


WHIPPOORWILL   TIME  6l 

Its  lamp  streams  on  the  garden-bed: 
The  whippoorwill  is  calling, 

"  Whippoorwill,  whippoorwill," 
Where  the  dogwood  blooms  are  falling 

On  the  hill; 

The  afterglow  is  waning 
And  the  whippoorwill' s  complaining, 
"  Whippoorwill,  whippoorwill "; 

Wild  and  shrill, 

The  whippoorwill  's  complaining, 
"  Whippoorwill." 

The  moon  blooms  out,  a  great  white  rose; 

The  stars  wheel  onward  toward  the  west: 
The  barnyard-cock  wakes  once  and  crows; 

The  farm  is  wrapped  in  peaceful  rest; 
The  cricket  chirs;  the  firefly  glows: 
The  whippoorwill  is  calling, 

"  Whippoorwill,  whippoorwill," 
Where  the  bramble-blooms  are  falling 


62  WHIPPOORWILL   TIME 

On  the  rill; 

The  moon  her  watch  is  keeping 
And  the  whippoorwill  is  weeping, 
"  Whippoorwill,  whippoorwill "; 

Lonely  still, 
The  whippoorwill  is  weeping, 

"  Whippoorwill." 


MYSTERIES 

SOFT  and  silken  and  silvery  brown, 
In  shoes  of  lichen  and  leafy  gown, 

Little  blue  butterflies  fluttering  around  her, 
Deep  in  the  forest,  afar  from  town, 
There  where  a  stream  came  trickling  down, 
I  met  with  Silence,  who  wove  a  crown 

Of  sleep  whose  mystery  bound  her. 

I  gazed  in  her  eyes,  that  were  mossy  green 
As  the  rain  that  pools  in  a  hollow  between 
The  twisted  roots  of  a  tree  that  towers: 
And  I  saw  the  things  that  none  has  seen, — 
That  mean  far  more  than  facts  may  mean,— 
The  dreams,  that  are  true,  of  an  age  that  has 

been, 

That  God  has  thought  into  flowers. 
63 


64  MYSTERIES 

I  gazed  on  her  lips,  that  were  dewy  gray 
As  the  mist  that  clings,  at  the  close  of  day, 

To  the  wet  hillside   when   the   winds   cease 

blowing; 

And  I  heard  the  things  that  none  may  say, — 
That  are  holier  far  than  the  prayers  we  pray, — 
The  murmured  music  God  breathes  alway 

Through  the  hearts  of  all  things  growing. 

Soft  and  subtle  and  vapory  white, 

In  shoes  of  shadow  and  gown  of  light, 

Crimson  poppies  asleep  around  her, 
Far  in  the  forest,  beneath  a  height, 
I  came  on  Slumber,  who  wove  from  night 
A  wreath  of  silence,  that,  darkly  bright, 

With  its  mystic  beauty  bound  her. 

I  looked  in  her  face  that  was  pale  and  still 
As  the  moon  that  rises  above  the  hill 

Where  the  pines  loom  sombre  as  sorrow: 


MYSTERIES  65 

And  the  things  that  all  have  known  and  will, 
I  knew  for  a  moment: — the  myths  that  fill 
And  people  the  past  of  the  soul  and  thrill 
Its  hope  with  a  far  to-morrow. 

I  heard  her  voice,  that  was  strange  with  pain 
As  a  wind  that  whispers  of  wreck  and  rain 

To  the  leaves  of  the  autumn  rustling  lonely : 
And  I  felt  the  things  that  are  felt  in  vain 
By  all — the  longings  that  haunt  the  brain 
Of  man,  that  come  and  depart  again 

And  are  part  of  his  dreamings  only. 

5 


THE    SOLITARY 

UPON  the  mossed  rock  by  the  spring 
She  sits,  forgetful  of  her  pail, 

Lost  in  remote  remembering 

Of  that  which  may  no  more  avail. 

Her  thin,  pale  hair  is  dimly  dressed 
Above  a  brow  lined  deep  with  care, 

The  color  of  a  leaf  long  pressed, 
A  faded  leaf  that  once  was  fair. 

You  may  not  know  her  from  the  stone 
So  still  she  sits  who  does  not  stir, 

Thinking  of  this  one  thing  alone — 
The  love  that  never  came  to  her. 


66 


A    YELLOW    ROSE 

THE  old  gate  clicks,  and  down  the  walk, 
Between  clove-pink  and  hollyhock, 
Still  young  of  face  though  gray  of  lock, 
Among  her  garden's  flowers  she  goes 

At  evening's  close, 
Deep  in  her  hair  a  yellow  rose. 

The  old  house  shows  one  gable-peak 
Above  its  trees;  and  sage  and  leek 
Blend  with  the  rose  their  scents:  the  creek, 
Leaf-hidden,  past  the  garden  flows, 

That  on  it  snows 
Pale  petals  of  the  yellow  rose. 

The  crickets  pipe  in  dewy  damps; 
And  everywhere  the  fireflies'  lamps 
67 


68  A  YELLOW   ROSE 

Flame  like  the  lights  of  Faery  camps; 
While,  overhead,  the  soft  sky  shows 

One  star  that  glows, 
As,  in  gray  hair,  a  yellow  rose. 

There  is  one  spot  she  seeks  for,  where 
The  roses  make  a  fragrant  lair, 
A  spot  where  once  he  kissed  her  hair, 
And  told  his  love,  as  each  one  knows, 

Each  flower  that  blows, 
And  pledged  it  with  a  yellow  rose. 

The  years  have  turned  her  dark  hair  gray 
Since  that  glad  day:  and  still,  they  say, 
She  keeps  the  tryst  as  on  that  day ; 
And  through  the  garden  softly  goes, 

At  evening's  close, 
Wearing  for  him  that  yellow  rose. 


THE    OLD    HOME 

AN  old  lane,  an  old  gate,  an  old  house  by  a  tree; 
A  wild  wood,  a  wild  brook — they  will  not  let  me 

be: 
In  boyhood  I  knew  them,  and  still  they  call  to 

me. 

Down  deep  in  my  heart's  core  I  hear  them  and 
my  eyes 

Through  tear-mists  behold  them  beneath  the 
oldtime  skies, 

'Mid  bee-boom  and  rose-bloom  and  orchard- 
lands  arise. 

I  hear  them;  and  heartsick  with  longing  is  my 

soul, 

69 


70  THE   OLD   HOME 

To   walk   there,   to  dream   there,   beneath   the 

sky's  blue  bowl; 
Around  me,  within  me,  the  weary  world  made 

whole. 

To  talk  with  the  wild  brook  of  all  the  long-ago; 
To  whisper  the  wood-wind  of  things  we  used  to 

know 
When  we  were  old  companions,  before  my  heart 

knew  woe. 

To  walk  with  the  morning  and  watch  its  rose 

unfold ; 
To  drowse  with  the  noontide  lulled  on  its  heart 

of  gold ; 
To  lie  with  the  night-time  and  dream  the  dreams 

of  old. 

To  tell  to  the  old  trees,  and  to  each  listening 
leaf, 


THE   OLD   HOME  71 

The  longing,   the  yearning,   as  in  my  boyhood 

brief, 
The  old  hope,  the  old  love,  would  ease  me  of 

my  grief. 

The  old  lane,  the  old  gate,  the  old  house  by  the 

tree, 
The  wild  wood,  the  wild  brook — they  will  not 

let  me  be: 
In  boyhood  I  knew  them,  and  still  they  call  to 

me. 


THE    OLD    HERB-MAN 

ON  the  barren  hillside  lone  he  sat; 
On  his  head  he  wore  a  tattered  hat; 
In  his  hand  he  bore  a  crooked  staff ; 
Never  heard  I  laughter  like  his  laugh, 
On  the  barren  hillside,  thistle-hoar. 

Cracked  his  laughter  sounded,  harsh  as  woe, 
As  the  croaking,  thinned,  of  a  crow: 
At  his  back  hung,  pinned,  a  wallet  old, 
Bulged  with  rootd  and  simples  caked  with  mould : 
On  the  barren,  hillside  in  the  wind. 

Roots  of  twisted  twin-leaf;  sassafras; 
Bloodroot,  tightly  whipped  'round  with  grass; 

Adder 's-tongue;  and,  tipped  brown  and  black, 

72 


THE   OLD    HERB-MAN  73 

Yellowroot  and  snakeroot  filled  his  pack, 
On  the  barren  hillside,  winter-stripped. 

There  is  nothing  sadder  than  old  age; 
Nothing  saddens  more  than  that  stage 
When,  forlornly  poor,  bent  with  toil, 
One  must  starve  or  wring  life  from  the  soil, 
From  the  barren  hillside,  wild  and  hoar. 

Down  the  barren  hillside  slow  he  went, 
Cursing  at  the  cold,  bowed  and  bent; 
With  his  bag  of  mould,  herbs  and  roots, 
In  his  clay-stained  garments,  clay-caked  boots, 
Down  the  barren  hillside,  poor  and  old. 


THE   MAN    HUNT 

THE  woods  stretch  wild  to  the  mountain-side, 
And  the  brush  is  deep  where  a  man  may  hide. 

They  have  brought  the  bloodhounds  up  again 
To  the  roadside  rock  where  they  found  the  slain. 

They  have  brought  the  bloodhounds  up,  and  they 
Have  taken  the  trail  to  the  mountain  way. 

Three  times  they  circled  the  trail  and  crossed, 
And  thrice  they  found  it  and  thrice  they  lost. 

Now  straight  through  the  trees  and  the  under 
brush 

They  follow  the  scent  through  the  forest's  hush. 
74 


THE   MAN    HUNT  75 

And  their  deep-mouthed  bay  is  a  pulse  of  fear 
In  the  heart  of  the  wood  that  the  man  must  hear. 

The  man  who  crouches  among  the  trees 
From  the  stern-faced  men  who  follow  these. 

A  huddle  of  rocks  that  the  ooze  has  mossed — 
And  the  trail  of  the  hunted  again  is  lost. 

An  upturned  pebble;  a  bit  of  ground 
A  heel  has  trampled — the  trail  is  found. 

And  the  woods  re-echo  the  bloodhounds'  bay 
As  again  they  take  to  the  mountain  way. 

A  rock;  a  ribbon  of  road;  a  ledge, 

With  a  pine-tree  clutching  its  crumbling  edge. 

A  pine,  that  the  lightning  long  since  clave, 
Whose  huge  roots  hollow  a  ragged  cave. 


76  THE    MAN    HUNT 

A  shout;  a  curse;  and  a  face  aghast, 
And  the  human  quarry  is  laired  at  last. 

The  human  quarry  with  clay-clogged  hair 
And  eyes  of  terror  who  waits  them  there. 

That  glares  and  crouches  and  rising  then 
Hurls  clods  and  curses  at  dogs  and  men. 

Until  the  blow  of  a  gun-butt  lays 

Him  stunned  and  bleeding  upon  his  face. 

A  rope,  a  prayer,  and  an  oak-tree  near, 
And  a  score  of  hands  to  swing  him  clear. 

A  grim,  black  thing  for  the  setting  sun 
And  the  moon  and  the  stars  to  look  upon. 


THE  VALE  OF  TEMPE 

ALL  night  I  lay  upon  the  rocks : 
And  now  the  dawn  comes  up  this  way, 
One  great  star  trembling  in  her  locks 
Of  rosy  ray. 

I  can  not  tell  the  things  I  've  seen; 
The  things  I  've  heard  I  dare  not  speak. 
The  dawn  is  breaking  gold  and  green 
O'er  vale  and  peak. 

My  soul  hath  kept  its  tryst  again 
With  her  as  once  in  ages  past, 
In  that  lost  life,  I  know  not  when, 
Which  was  my  last. 

When  she  was  Dryad,  I  was  Faun, 
And  lone  we  loved  in  Tempe's  Vale, 
77 


78  THE  VALE   OF  TEMPE 

Where  once  we  saw  Endymion 
Pass  passion-pale: 

Where  once  we  saw  him  clasp  and  meet 
Among  the  pines,  with  kiss  on  kiss, 
Moon-breasted  and  most  heavenly  sweet, 
White  Artemis. 

Where  often,  Bacchus-borne,  we  heard 
The  Maenad  shout,  wild-revelling; 
And  filled  with  witchraft,  past  all  word, 
The  Limnad  sing. 

Bloom-bodied  'mid  the  twilight  trees 
We  saw  the  Oread,  who  shone 
Fair  as  a  form  Praxiteles 
Carved  out  of  stone. 

And  oft,  goat-footed,  in  a  glade 

We  marked  the  Satyrs  dance:  and  great, 


THE  VALE   OF  TEMPE  79 

Man-muscled,  like  the  oaks  that  shade 
Dodona's  gate, 

Fierce  Centaurs  hoof  the  torrent's  bank 
With  wind-swept  manes,  or  leap  the  crag, 
While  swift,  the  arrow  in  its  flank, 
Swept  by  the  stag. 

And,  minnow-white,  the  Naiad  there 

We  watched,  foam-shouldered,  in  her  stream 

Wringing  the  moisture  from  her  hair 

Of  emerald  gleam. 

We  saw  the  oak  unclose  and,  brown, 
Sap-scented,  from  its  door  of  bark 
The  Hamadryad's  form  step  down: 
Or,  crouching  dark 

Within  the  oak's  deep  heart,  we  felt 
Her  eyes  that  pierced  the  fibrous  gloom; 


80  THE  VALE   OF  TEMPE 

Her  breath,  that  was  the  nard  we  smelt, 
The  wild  perfume. 

There  is  no  flower,  that  opens  glad 
Soft  eyes  of  dawn  and  sunset  hue, 
As  fair  as  the  Limoniad 
We  saw  there  too : 

That  flow'r-divinity,  rose-born, 
Of  sunlight  and  white  dew,  whose  blood 
Is  fragrance,  and  whose  heart  of  morn 
A  crimson  bud. 

There  is  no  star,  that  rises  white 
To  tip-toe  down  the  deeps  of  dusk, 
Sweet  as  the  moony  Nymphs  of  Night 
With  breasts  of  musk, 

We  met  among  the  mystery 

And  hush  of  forests, — where,  afar, 


THE  VALE   OF  TEMPE  8 1 

We  watched  their  hearts  beat  glimmeringly, 
Each  heart  a  star. — 

There  is  no  beam,  that  rays  the  marge 
Of  mist  that  trails  from  cape  to  cape, 
From  panther-haunted  gorge  to  gorge, 
Bright  as  the  shape 

Of  her,  the  one  Auloniad, 
That,  born  of  wind  and  grassy  gleams, 
Silvered  upon  our  sight,  dim-clad 
In  foam  of  streams. 

All,  all  of  these  I  saw  again, 
Or  dreamed  I  saw,  as  there,  ah  me! 
Upon  the  cliffs,  above  the  plain, 
In  Thessaly, 

I  lay,  while  Mount  Olympus  helmed 
Its  brow  with  moon-effulgence  deep, 

6 


82  THE  VALE   OF  TEMPE 

And,  far  below,  vague,  overwhelmed 
With  reedy  sleep, 

Peneus  flowed,  and,  murmuring,  sighed, 
Meseemed,  for  its  dead  gods,  whose  ghosts 
Through  its  dark  forests  seemed  to  glide 
In  shadowy  hosts. 

'Mid  whose  pale  shapes  again  I  spoke 
With  her,  my  soul,  as  I  divine, 
Dim  'neath  some  gnarled  Olympian  oak, 
Or  Ossan  pine, 

Till  down  the  slopes  of  heaven  came 
Those  daughters  of  the  dawn,  the  Hours, 
Clothed  on  with  raiment  blue  of  flame, 
And  crowned  with  flowers; 

When  she,  with  whom  my  soul  once  more 
Had  trysted — limbed  of  light  and  air — 


THE  VALE   OF  TEMPE  83 

Whom  to  my  breast,  (as  oft  of  yore 
In  Tempe  there, 

When  she  was  Dryad,  I  was  Faun,) 
I  clasped  and  held,  and  pressed  and  kissed, 
Within  my  arms,  as  broke  the  dawn, 
Became  a  mist. 


MARIANA 

' '  There,    at   the    moated  grange,    resides   this    dejected 
Mariana" — SHAKESPEARE. 

THE  sunset-crimson  poppies  are  departed, 

Mariana! 
The  dusky-centred,  sultry-smelling  poppies, 

The  drowsy-hearted, 
That  burnt  like  flames  along  the  garden  coppice: 

All  heavy-headed, 
The  ruby-cupped  and  opium-brimming  poppies, 

That  slumber  wedded, 

Mariana! 

The  sunset-crimson  poppies  are  departed. 
Oh,  heavy,  heavy  are  the  hours  that  fall, 

The  lonesome  hours  of  the  lonely  days! 
No  poppy  strews  oblivion  by  the  wall, 

Where  lone  the  last  pod  sways, — 
84 


MARIANA  85 

Oblivion  that  was  hers  of  old  that  happier  made 

her  days. 

Oh,  weary,  weary  is  the  sky  o'er  all, 
The  days  that  creep,  the  hours  that  crawl, 

And  weary  all  the  ways — 
She  leans  her  face  against  the  old  stone  wall, 
The  lichened  wall,  the  mildewed  wall, 

And  dreams,  the  long,  long  days, 
Of  one  who  will  not  come  again  whatever  may 
befall. 

All  night  it  blew.     The  rain  streamed  down 

And  drowned  the  world  in  misty  wet. 
At  morning,  'round  the  sunflower's  crown 

A  row  of  glimmering  drops  was  set; 
The  candytuft,  heat  shrivelled  brown, 

And  beds  of  drought-dried  mignonette, 
Were  beat  to  earth:  but  wearier,  oh, 
The  rain  was  than  the  sun's  fierce  glow 
That  in  the  garth  had  wrought  such  woe: 


86  MARIANA 

That  killed  the  moss-rose  ere  it  bloomed, 

And  scorched  the  double-hollyhocks; 
And  bred  great,  poisonous  weeds  that  doomed 

The  snapdragon  and  standing-phlox; 
'Mid  which  gaunt  spiders  wove  and  loomed 

Their  dusty  webs  'twixt  rows  of  box; 
And  rotted  into  sleepy  ooze 
The  lilied  moat,  that,  lined  with  yews, 
Lay  scummed  with  many  sickly  hues. 


How  oft  she  longed  and  prayed  for  rain ! 

To  blot  the  hateful  landscape  out! 
To  heal  her  heart,  so  parched  with  pain, 

With  sounds  of  coolth  and  broken  drought ; 
And  cure  with  change  her  stagnant  brain, 

And  soothe  to  sleep  all  care  and  doubt. 
At  last — when  many  days  had  past — 
And  she  had  ceased  to  care — at  last 
The  longed-for  rain  came,  falling  fast. 


MARIANA  87 

At  night,  as  late  she  lay  awake, 

And  thought  of  him  who  had  not  come, 

She  heard  the  gray  wind,  moaning,  shake 
Her  lattice;  then  the  steady  drum 

Of  storm  upon  the  leads.     .     .     .     The  ache 
Within  her  heart,  so  burdensome, 

Grew  heavier  with  the  moan  of  rain. 

The  house  was  still,  save,  at  her  pane 

The  wind  cried;  hushed,  then  cried  again. 


All  night  she  lay  awake  and  wept: 
There  was  no  other  thing  to  do: 

At  dawn  she  rose  and,  silent,  crept 
Adown  the  stairs  that  led  into 

The  dripping  garth,  the  storm  had  swept 
With  ruin ;  where,  of  every  hue, 

The  flowers  lay  rotting,  stained  with  mould; 

Where  all  was  old,  unkempt  and  old, 

And  ragged  as  a  marigold. 


88  MARIANA 

She  sat  her  down,  where  oft  she  sat, 

Upon  a  bench  of  marble,  where, 
In  lines  she  oft  would  marvel  at, 

A  Love  was  carved. — She  did  not  dare 
Look  on  it  then,  remembering  that 

Here  in  past  time  he  kissed  her  hair, 
And  murmured  vows  while,  soft  above, 
The  full  moon  lit  the  form  thereof, 
The  slowly  crumbling  form  of  Love. 


She  could  but  weep,  remembering  hours 

Like  these.     Then  in  the  drizzling  rain, 
That  weighed  with  wet  the  dying  flowers, 

She  sought  the  old  stone  dial  again ; 
The  dial,  among  the  moss-rose  bowers, 

Where  often  she  had  read,  in  vain, 
Of  time  and  change,  and  love  and  loss, 
Rude-lettered  and  o'ergrown  with  moss, 
That  slow  the  gnomon  moved  across. 


MARIANA  89 

Remembering  this  she  turned  away, 
The  rain  and  tears  upon  her  face. 
There  was  no  thing  to  do  or  say. — 
She  stood  a  while,  a  little  space, 
And  watched  the  rain  bead,  round  and  gray, 

Upon  the  cobweb's  tattered  lace, 
And  tag  the  toadstool's  spongy  brim 
With  points  of  mist;  and,  orbing,  dim 
With  fog  the  sunflower's  ruined  rim. 


With  fog,  through  which  the  moon  at  night 
Would  glimmer  like  a  spectre  sail; 

Or,  sullenly,  a  blur  of  light, 

Like  some  huge  glow-worm  dimly  trail; 

'Neath  which  she  'd  hear,  wrapped  deep  in  white, 
The  far  sea  moaning  on  its  shale: 

While  in  the  garden,  pacing  slow, 

And  listening  to  its  surge  and  flow, 

She  'd  seem  to  hear  her  own  heart's  woe. 


90  MARIANA 

Now  as  the  fog  crept  in  from  sea,— 
A  great,  white  darkness,  like  a  pall, — 

The  yews  and  huddled  shrubbery, 
That  dripped  along  the  weedy  wall, 

Turned  phantoms;  and  as  shadowy 

She  too  seemed,  wandering  'mid  it  all — 

A  phantom,  pale  and  sad  and  strange, 

And  hopeless;  doomed  for  aye  to  range 

About  the  melancholy  grange. 


The  pansies  too  are  dead,  the  violet-varied, 

Mariana! 
The  raven-dyed  and  fire-fretted  pansies, 

To  memory  married; 
That  from  the  grass,  like  forms  in  old  romances, 

Raised  fairy  faces: 

All  dead  they  lie,  the  violet-velvet  pansies, 
In  many  places, 

Mariana! 


MARIANA  91 

The  pansies  too  are  dead,  the  violet-varied. 
Oh,  hateful,  hateful  are  the  hours  that  pass, 

The  lonely  hours  of  the  lonesome  nights! 
No  pansy  scatters  heartsease  through  the  grass, 

That  autumn  sorrow  blights, 
The  heartsease  that  was  hers  of  old  that  happier 

made  her  nights. 

Oh,  barren,  barren  is  her  life,  alas! 
Its  youth  and  beauty,  all  it  has, 

And  barren  all  delights — 
She  lays  her  face  against  the  withered  grass, 
The  sodden  grass,  the  autumn  grass, 

And  thinks,  the  long,  long  nights, 
Of  one  who  will  not  come  again  whatever  comes 
to  pass. 


THE    FOREST   OF   SHADOWS 

DEEP  in  the  hush  of  a  mighty  wood 
I  came  to  a  place  of  dread  and  dream, 

And  forms  of  shadows,  whose  shapes  elude 
The  searching  swords  of  the  sun's  dim  gleam, 

Builders  of  silence  and  solitude. 

And  there  where  a  glimmering  water  crept 
From  rock  to  rock  with  a  slumberous  sound, 
Tired  to  tears,  on  the  mossy  ground, 

Under  a  tree  I  lay  and  slept. 

Was  it  the  heart  of  an  olden  oak? 

Was  it  the  soul  of  a  flower  that  died? 
Or  was  it  the  wildrose  there  that  spoke, 

The  wilding  lily  that  palely  sighed? — 

For  all  on  a  sudden  it  seemed  I  awoke: 
92 


THE   FOREST  OF   SHADOWS  93 

And  the  leaves  and  the  flowers  were  all  intent 
On  a  visible  something  of  light  and  bloom — 
A  presence,  felt  as  a  wild  perfume 

Or  beautiful  music,  that  came  and  went. 

And  all  the  grief,  I  had  known,  was  gone; 

And  all  the  anguish  of  heart  and  soul; 
And  the  burden  of  care  that  had  made  me  wan 

Lifted  and  left  me  strong  and  whole 
As  once  in  the  flush  of  my  youth's  dead  dawn. 
And,  lo!  it  was  night.     And  the  oval  moon, 

A  silvery  silence,  paced  the  wood: 

And  there  in  its  light  like  snow  she  stood, 
As  starry  still  as  a  star  aswoon. 

At  first  I  thought  that  I  looked  into 

A  shadowy  water  of  violet, 
Where  the  faint  reflection  of  one  I  knew, 

Long  dead,  gazed  up  from  its  mirror  wet, 
Till  she  smiled  in  my  face  as  the  living  do; 


94  THE   FOREST   OF   SHADOWS 

Till  I  felt  her  touch,  and  heard  her  say, 
In  a  voice  as  still  as  a  rose  unfolds, — 
"You  have  come  at  last;    and  now  nothing 
holds; 

Give  me  your  hand;  let  us  wander  away. 


"  Let   us   wander   away   through   the    Shadow 

Wood, 
Through  the  Shadow  Wood  to  the  Shadow 

Land, 
Where  the  trees  have  speech  and  the  blossoms 

brood 

Like  visible  music;  and  hand  in  hand 
The  winds  and  the  waters  go  rainbow-hued : 
Where  ever  the  voice  of  beauty  sighs; 
And  ever  the  dance  of  dreams  goes  on ; 
Where  nothing  grows  old ;  and  the  dead  and 

gone, 
And  the  loved  and  lost,  smile  into  your  eyes. 


THE   FOREST   OF  SHADOWS  95 

"  Let  us  wander  away!  let  us  wander  away! — 
Do  you  hear  them  calling,  '  Come  here  and 
live'? 

Do  you  hear  what  the  trees  and  the  flowers  say, 
Wonderful,  wild,  and  imperative, 

Hushed  as  the  hues  of  the  dawn  of  day? 

They  say,  '  Your  life,  that  was  rose  and  rue 
In  a  world  of  shadows  where  all  things  die, 
Where  beauty  is  dust  and  love,  a  lie, 

Is   finished. — Come  here!    we   are   waiting  for 
you!'  " 

And  she  took  my  hand :  and  the  trees  around 
Seemed   whispering   something   I   dared   not 

hear: 
And    the    taciturn    flowers,    that    strewed   the 

ground, 

Seemed  thinking  something  I  felt  with  fear, 
A  beautiful  something  that  made  no  sound. 
And  she  led  me  on  through  the  forest  old, 


96  THE   FOREST   OF   SHADOWS 

Where  the  moon  and  the  midnight  stood  on 

guard, — 

Sentinel  spirits  that  shimmered  the  sward, 
Silver  and  sable  and  glimmering  gold. 

And  then  in  an  instant  I  knew.     I  knew 

What  the  trees  had  whispered,  the  winds  had 

said; 

What  the  flowers  had  thought  in  their  hearts  of 
dew, 

And  the  stars  had  syllabled  overhead, 
And  she  bent  above  me  and  smiled,  "  'T  is  true! 
Heart  of  my  heart,  you  have  heard  aright. — 

Look  in  my  eyes  and  draw  me  near! 

Look  in  my  eyes  and  have  no  fear! — 
Heart  of  my  heart,  you  died  to-night!  " 


THE   AWAKENING 

GOD  made  that  night  of  pearl  and  ivory, 

Perfect  and  holy  as  a  holy  thought 
Born  of  perfection,  dreams,  and  ecstasy, 

In  love  and  silence  wrought. 
And  she,  who  lay  where,  through  the  casement 

falling, 
The  moonlight  clasped  with  arms  of  vapory 

gold 

Her  Danae  beauty,  seemed  to  hear  a  calling 
Deep  in  the  garden  old. 

And  then  it  seemed,  through  some  strange  sense, 

she  heard     . 

The  roses  softly  speaking  in  the  night. — 
Or  was  it  but  the  nocturne  of  a  bird 
Haunting  the  white  moonlight? 
97 


98  THE  AWAKENING 

It  seemed  a  fragrant  whisper  vaguely  roaming 
From   rose   to   rose,   a   language   sweet   that 

blushed, 
Saying,    "Who   comes?      Who   is   this    swiftly 

coming, 
With  face  so  dim  and  hushed? 

"And   now,    and   now   we  hear  a   wild   heart 

beating — 
Whose   heart   is   this   that  beats  among  our 

blooms? 
Whose  every  pulse  in  rapture  keeps  repeating 

Wild  words  like  wild  perfumes." — 
And  then  it  ceased:  and  then  she  heard  a  sigh, 

As  if  a  lily  syllabled  sweet  scent, — 
Or  was  it  but  the  wind  that  silverly 

Touched  some  stringed  instrument? 

And  then  again  a  rumor  she  detected 

Among  the  roses,  words  of  musk  and  myrrh, 


THE  AWAKENING  99 

Saying,  "  He  comes!  the  one  she  hath  expected, 

Who  long  hath  sought  for  her. 
The  one  whose  coming  made  her  soul  awaken; 
Whose  face  is  fragrance  and  whose  feet  are  fire : 
The  one  by  whom  her  being  shall  be  shaken 

With  dreams  and  deep  desire." 

And  then  she  rose ;  and  to  the  casement  hastened, 

And  flung  it  wide  and,  leaning  outward,  gazed; 

Above,    the   night    hung,    moon    and    starlight 

chastened; 

Below,  with  shadows  mazed, 
The  garden  bloomed.     Around  her  and  o'erhead 
All  seemed  at  pause — save  one  wild  star  that 

streamed, 

One  rose  that  fell.    And  then  she  sighed  and  said, 
"  I  must  have  dreamed,  have  dreamed." 

And  then  again  she  seemed  to  hear  it  speak, 
A  moth  that  murmured  of  a  star  attained, — 


100  THE   AWAKENING 

Or  was  it  but  the  fountain  whispering  weak, 
White  where  the  moonbeams  rained? 

And  still  it  grew;  and  still  the  sound  insisted, 
Louder  and  sweeter,  burning  into  form, 

Until  at  last  a  presence,  starlight-misted, 
It  shone  there  rosy  warm. 

Crying,  "  Come  down!  long  have  I  watched  and 

waited! 

Come  down!  draw  near!  or,  like  some  splen 
did  flower, 
Let  down  thy  hair!  so  I  may  climb  as  fated 

Into  thy  heart's  high  tower. 
Lower!  bend  lower!  so  thy  heart  may  hear  me, 

Thy  soul  may  clasp  me ! — Beautiful  above 
All  beautiful  things,  behold  me,  yea,  draw  near 

me! 
Behold!  for  I  am  Love." 


MUSIC    AND    MOONLIGHT 

WHITE  roses,  like  a  mist 

Upon  a  terraced  height, 

And  'mid  the  roses,  opal,  moonbeam-kissed, 

A  fountain  falling  white. 

And  as  the  full  moon  flows, 
Orbed  fire,  into  a  cloud, 
There  is  a  fragrant  sound  as  if  a  rose 
Had  sighed  its  soul  aloud. 

There  is  a  whisper  pale, 

As  if  a  rose  awoke, 

And,  having  heard  in  sleep  the  nightingale, 

Still  dreaming  of  it  spoke. 
101 


102  MUSIC   AND    MOONLIGHT 

Now,  as  from  some  vast  shell 

A  giant  pearl  rolls  white, 

From  the  dividing  cloud,  that  winds  compel, 

The  moon  sweeps,  big  and  bright. 

Moon-mists  and  pale  perfumes, 
Wind-wafted  through  the  dusk: 
There  is  a  sound  as  if  unfolding  blooms 
Voiced  their  sweet  thoughts  in  musk. 

A  spirit  is  abroad 

Of  music  and  of  sleep: 

The  moon  and  mists  have  made  for  it  a  road 

Adown  the  violet  deep. 

It  breathes  a  tale  to  me, 

A  tale  of  ancient  day; 

And  like  a  dream  again  I  seem  to  see 

Those  towers  old  and  gray. 


MUSIC   AND   MOONLIGHT  IO3 

That  castle  by  the  foam, 

Where  once  our  hearts  made  moan : 

And  through  the  night  again  you  seem  to  come 

Down  statued  stairs  of  stone. 

Again  I  feel  your  hair, 

Dark,  fragrant,  deep  and  cool: 

You  lift  your  face  up,  pale  with  its  despair, 

And  wildly  beautiful. 

Again  your  form  I  strain ; 

Again,  unto  my  heart: 

Again  your  lips,  again  and  yet  again, 

I  press — and  then  we  part. 

As  centuries  ago 

We  did  in  Camelot ; 

Where  once  we  lived  that  life  of  bliss  and  woe, 

That  you  remember  not. 


104  MUSIC  AND   MOONLIGHT 

When  you  were  Guinevere, 

And  I  was  Launcelot     . 

I  have  remembered  many  and  many  a  year, 

And  you — you  have  forgot. 


BERTRAND    DE   BORN 

Knight  and  Troubadour,  to  his  Lady  the  Beautiful 
Maenz  of  Martagnac 

THE  burden  of  the  sometime  years, 

That  once  my  soul  did  overweigh, 
Falls  from  me,  with  its  griefs  and  fears, 

When  gazing  in  thine  eyes  of  gray; 

Wherein,  behold,  like  some  bright  ray 
Of  dawn,  thy  heart's  fond  love  appears, 

To  cheer  my  life  upon  its  way. 

Thine  eyes !  the  daybreak  of  my  heart ! 

That  give  me  strength  to  do  and  dare; 
Whose  beauty  is  a  radiant  part 

Of  all  my  songs;  the  music  there; 

The  morning,  that  makes  dim  each  care, 
105 


106  BERTRAND   DE   BORN 

And  glorifies  my  mind's  dull  mart, 
And  helps  my  soul  to  do  and  dare. 

God,  when  He  made  thy  fresh  fair  face, 
And  thy  young  body,  took  the  morn 

And  made  thee  like  a  rose,  whose  race 
Is  not  of  Earth ;  without  a  thorn, 
And  dewed  thee  with  the  joy  that  's  born 

Of  love,  wherein  hope  hath  its  place 
Like  to  the  star  that  heralds  morn. 

I  go  my  way  through  town  and  thorp: 

In  court  and  hall  and  castle  bower 
I  tune  my  lute  and  strike  my  harp : 

And  often  from  some  twilight  tower 

A  lady  drops  to  me  a  flower, 
That  bids  me  scale  the  moat's  steep  scarp, 

And  climb  to  love  within  her  bower. 

I  heed  them  not,  but  go  my  ways: 
What  is  their  passion  unto  me! 


BERTRAND   DE   BORN  IO/ 

My  songs  are  only  in  thy  praise; 
Thy  face  alone  it  is  I  see, 
That  fills  my  heart  with  melody — 

My  sweet  aubade!  that  makes  my  days 
All  music,  singing  here  in  me! 

One  time  a  foul  knight  in  his  towers 

Sneered  thus:   "God's  blood!  why  weary  us 

With  this  one  woman  all  our  hours!— 
Sing  of  our  wenches!  amorous 
Yolande  and  Ysoarde  here! — Not  thus 

Shalt  sing,  but  of  our  paramours! — 
What  is  thy  Lady  unto  us!  " 

And  then  I  flung  my  lute  aside; 

And  from  its  baldric  flew  my  sword; 

And  down  the  hall  't  was  but  a  stride; 
And  in  his  brute  face  and  its  word 
My  gauntlet;  and  around  the  board 


108  BERTRAND   DE  BORN 

The  battle,  till  all  wild-beast-eyed 
He  lay  and  at  his  throat  my  sword. 

Thou  dost  remember  in  Provence 
The  vile  thing  that  I  slew ;  and  how 

With  my  good  jongleurs  and  my  lance 
Kept  back  his  horde! — The  memory  now 
Makes  fierce  my  blood  and  hot  my  brow 

With  rage. — Ah,  what  a  madman  dance 
We  led  them,  and  escaped  somehow ! 

Oft  times,  when,  in  the  tournament, 
I  see  thee  sitting  yet  uncrowned; 

And  bugles  blow  and  spears  are  bent, 
And  shields  and  falchions  clash  around, 
And  steeds  go  crashing  to  the  ground; 

And  thou  dost  smile  on  me, — 'though  spent 
With  war,  again  my  soul  is  crowned: 

And  I  am  fire  to  strike  and  slay; 
Before  my  face  there  comes  a  mist 


BERTRAND   DE   BORN  IOQ 

Of  blood ;  and  like  a  flame  I  play 

Through  the  loud  lists ;  all  who  resist 
Go  down  like  corn;  until  thy  wrist, 

Kneeling,  I  kiss;  the  wreath  they  lay 
Of  beauty  on  thy  head's  gold  mist. 

And  then  I  seize  my  lute  and  sing 

Some  chanson  or  some  wild  aubade 
Full  of  thy  beauty  and  the  swing 

Of  swords  and  love  which  I  have  had 

Of  thee,  until,  with  music  mad, 
The  lists  reel  with  thy  name  and  ring 

The  echoed  words  of  my  aubade. 

I  am  thy  knight  and  troubadour, 

Bertrand  de  Born,  whom  naught  shall  part 
From  thee:  who  art  my  life's  high  lure, 

And  wild  bird  of  my  wilder  heart 

And  all  its  music :  yea,  who  art 
My  soul's  sweet  sickness  and  its  cure, 

From  which,  God  grant!  it  ne'er  shall  part. 


THE   TROUBADOUR,   PONS    DE 
CAPDEUIL 

In  Provence,  to  his  Lady,  Azalis  de  Mercosur  in 
Anjou 

THE  gray  dawn  finds  me  thinking  still 
Of  thee  who  hadst  my  thoughts  all  night; 

Of  thee,  who  art  my  lute's  sweet  skill, 
And  of  my  soul  the  only  light; 

My  star  of  song  to  whom  I  turn 

My  face  and  for  whose  love  I  yearn. 

Thou  dost  not  know  thy  troubadour 
Lies  sick  to  death ;  no  longer  sings : 

That  this  alone  may  work  his  cure — 

To  feel  thy  white  hand,  weighed  with  rings, 

Smoothed  softly  through  his  heavy  hair, 

Or  resting  with  the  old  love  there, 
no 


PONS   DE  CAPDEUIL  1 1  I 

To  feel  thy  warm  cheek  laid  to  his ; 

Thy  bosom  fluttering  with  love; 
Then  on  his  eyes  and  lips  thy  kiss — 

Thy  kiss  alone  were  all  enough 
To  heal  his  heart,  to  cure  his  soul, 
And  make  his  mind  and  body  whole. 

The  drought,  these  three  months  past,  hath  slain 
All  green  things  in  this  weary  land, 

As  in  my  life  thy  high  disdain 

Hath  killed  ambition:  yea,  my  hand 

Forgets  its  cunning;  and  my  heart, 

Sick  to  stagnation,  all  its  art. 

Once  to  my  castle  there  at  Puy, 

In  honor  of  thy  beauty,  came 
The  Angevin  nobility, 

To  hear  me  sing  of  thee,  whose  fame 
Was  high  as  Helen's. — Azalis, 
Hast  thou  forgot?     Forget'st  thou  this? 


112  PONS   DE   CAPDEUIL 

And  in  the  lists  how  often  there 

I  broke  a  spear  for  thee?  and  placed 

The  crown  of  beauty  on  thy  hair, 

While  thou  sat'st,  like  the  fair  moon  faced, 

Amid  the  human  firmament 

Of  faces  that  toward  thee  bent. 

I  take  my  hawk,  my  peregrine — 

No  falconer  or  page  beside— 
And  ride  from  morn  till  eve  begin; 

I  ride  forgetting  that  I  ride, 
And  all  save  this:  that  thou  no  more 
Dost  ride  beside  me  as  of  yore. 

A  heron  sweeps  above  me:  I 

Remember  then  how  oft  were  cast 

Thy  hawk  and  mine  at  such:  and  sigh 
Thinking  of  thee  and  days  long  past, 

When  through  the  Anjou  fields  and  bowers 

We  used  to  hawk  and  hunt  for  hours. 


PONS   DE  CAPDEUIL  113 

And  when,  unhappy,  I  return, 
And  take  my  lute  and  seek  again 

The  terrace  where,  beside  some  urn, 
The  castle  gathers, — while  the  stain 

Of  sunset  crimsons  all  the  sea, — 

And  sing  old  songs  once  loved  of  thee: 

The  soul  within  me  overflows 

With  longing;  and  I  seem  to  hear 

Thy  voice  through  fountains  and  the  rose 
Calling  afar,  while,  wildly  near, 

The  rossignol  makes  mute  my  tongue 

With  memories  of  things  long  sung. 

Here  in  Provence  I  pine  for  thee ; 

And  there  in  Anjou  dost  forget!— 
All  beauty  here  is  less  to  me 

Than  is  the  ribbon  lightly  set 
At  thy  white  throat;  or,  on  thy  foot, 
The  shoe  that  I  have  loved  to  lute. 


114  PONS   DE   CAPDEUIL 

Thy  foot,  that  I  have  loved  to  kiss; 

To  kiss  and  sing  of! — Song  hath  died 
In  me  since  then,  my  Azalis; 

Since  to  my  soul  e'en  that  's  denied: 
Thy  kiss,  that  now  alone  could  cure 
The  sick  heart  of  thy  Troubadour. 


THE   BALLAD   OF   THE    ROSE 

BOOTED  and  spurred  he  rode  toward  the  west, 
A  rose,  from  the  woman  who  loved  him  best, 
Lay  warm  with  her  kisses  there  in  his  breast, 
And  the  battle  beacons  were  burning. 

As  over  the  draw  he  galloping  went, 
She,  from  the  gateway's  battlement, 
With  a  wafted  kiss  and  a  warning  bent — 
"  Beware  of  the  ford  at  the  turning!  " 

An  instant  only  he  turned  in  his  sell, 
And  lightly  fingered  his  petronel, 
Then  settled  his  sword  in  its  belt  as  well, 
And  the  horns  to  battle  were  sounding. 

She  watched  till  he  reached  the  beacon  there, 
And  saw  its  gleam  on  his  helm  and  hair, 


Il6  THE   BALLAD   OF   THE   ROSE 

Then  turned  and  murmured,  "God  keep  thee, 

Clare! 
From  that  wolf  of  the  hills  and  his  hounding." 

And  on  he  rode  till  he  came  to  the  hill, 
Where  the  road  turned  off  by  the  ruined  mill, 
Where  the  stream  flowed  shallow  and  broad  and 

still, 
And  the  battle  beacon  was  burning. 

Into  the  river  with  little  heed, 

Down  from  the  hill  he  galloped  his  steed — 

The  water  whispered  on  rock  and  reed, 

"  Death  hides  by  the  ford  at  the  turning!  " 

And  out  of  the  night  on  the  other  side, 
Their  helms  and  corselets  dim  descried, 
He  saw  ten  bandit  troopers  ride, 

And  the  horns  to  battle  were  blaring. 


THE   BALLAD    OF   THE   ROSE  II? 

Then  he  reined  his  steed  in  the  middle  ford, 
And  glanced  behind  him  and  drew  his  sword, 
And  laughed  as  he  shouted  his  battle-word, 
"  Clare!  Clare!  and  my  steel  needs  airing!  " 

Then  down  from  the  hills  at  his  back  there  came 
Ten  troopers  more.     With  a  face  of  flame 
Red  Hugh  of  the  Hills  led  on  the  same, 
In  the  glare  of  the  beacon's  burning. 

Again  the  cavalier  turned  and  gazed, 
Then  quick  to  his  lips  the  rose  he  raised, 
And  kissed  it,  crying,  "  Now  God  be  praised! 
And  help  her  there  when  mourning!  " 

Then  he  rose  in  his  stirrups  and  loosened  rein, 
And  shouting  his  cry  spurred  on  amain 
Into  the  troopers  to  slay  and  be  slain, 
While  the  horns  to  battle  were  blowing. 


Il8  THE   BALLAD   OF  THE   ROSE 

With  ten  behind  him  and  ten  before, 
And  the  battle  beacon  to  light  the  shore, 
Small  doubt  of  the  end  in  his  mind  he  bore, 
With  her  rose  in  his  bosom  glowing. 

One  trooper  he  slew  with  his  petronel, 
And  one  with  his  sword  when  his  good  steed  fell, 
And  they  haled  him,  fighting,  from  horse  and  sell 
In  the  light  of  the  beacon's  burning. 

Quoth  Hugh  of  the  Hills,—"  To  yonder  tree 
Now  hang  him  high  where  she  may  see; 
Then  bear  this  rose  and  message  from  me — 
4  The  ravens  feast  at  the  turning/  ' 


LOW-LIE-DOWN 

JOHN-A-DREAMS  and  Harum-Scarum 
Came  a-riding  into  town: 
At  the  Sign  o'  the  Jug-and-Jorum 
There  they  met  with  Low-lie-down. 

Brave  in  shoes  of  Romany  leather, 
Bodice  blue  and  gipsy  gown, 
And  a  cap  of  fur  and  feather, 
In  the  inn  sat  Low-lie-down. 

Harum-Scarum  kissed  her  lightly, 
Smiled  into  her  eyes  of  brown, 
Clasped  her  waist  and  held  her  tightly, 
Saying,  "Love  me,  Low-lie-down." 

Then  with  many  an  oath  and  swagger, 

As  a  man  of  great  renown, 
119 


120  LOW-LIE-DOWN 

On  the  board  he  clapped  his  dagger, 
Called  for  sack  and  sat  him  down. 

So  a  while  they  laughed  together: 
Then  he  rose  and  with  a  frown 
Sighed,  "  While  still  't  is  pleasant  weather 
I  must  leave  thee,  Low-lie-down." 

So  away  rode  Harum-Scarum, 
With  a  song  rode  out  of  town; 
At  the  sign  o'  the  Jug-and-Jorum 
Weeping  tarried  Low-lie-down. 

Then  this  John-a-dreams,  in  tatters, 

In  his  pocket  ne'er  a  crown, 

Touched  her  saying,  "Wench,  what  matters! 

Dry  your  eyes  and,  come,  sit  down. 

"  Here  's  my  hand:  let  's  roam  together, 
Far  away  from  thorp  and  town. 


LOW-LIE-DOWN  121 

Here  's  my  heart  for  any  weather, 
And  my  dreams,  too,  Low-lie-down. 

"  Some  men  call  me  dreamer,  poet; 
Some  men  call  me  fool  and  clown — 
What  I  am  but  you  shall  know  it! 
Come  with  me,  sweet  Low-lie-down." 

For  a  little  while  she  pondered. 
Smiled  and  said,  "  Let  care  go  drown!  " 
Rose  and  kissed  him. — Forth  they  wandered, 
John-a-dreams  and  Low-lie-down. 


ROSE    LEAVES    WHEN    THE    ROSE    IS 
DEAD 

SEE  how  the  rose  leaves  fall — 

The  rose  leaves  fall  and  fade: 
And  by  the  wall,  in  dusk  funereal, 

How  leaf  on  leaf  is  laid, 

Withered  and  soiled  and  frayed. 

How  red  the  rose  leaves  fall — 

And  in  the  ancient  trees, 
That  stretch  their  twisted  arms  about  the  hall, 

Burdened  with  mysteries, 

How  sadly  sighs  the  breeze. 

How  soft  the  rose  leaves  fall — 
The  rose  leaves  drift  and  lie: 

And  over  them  dull  slugs  and  beetles  crawl, 
122 


ROSE   LEAVES  123 

And,  palely  glimmering  by, 
The  glow-worm  trails  its  eye. 

How  thick  the  rose  leaves  fall — 

And  strew  the  garden  way, 
For  snails  to  slime  and  spotted  toads  to  sprawl, 

And,  plodding  past  each  day, 

Coarse  feet  to  tread  in  clay. 

How  fast  they  fall  and  fall- 
Where  Beauty,  carved  in  stone, 

With  broken  hands  veils  her  dead  eyes ;  and,  tall, 
White  in  the  moonlight  lone, 
Looms  like  a  marble  moan. 

How  slow  they  drift  and  fall — 

And  strew  the  fountained  pool, 
That,  in  the  nymph-carved  basin  by  the  wall, 

Reflects  in  darkness  cool 

Ruin  made  beautiful. 


124  ROSE   LEAVES 

How  red  the  rose  leaves  fall — 

Fall  and  like  blood  remain 
Upon  the  dial's  disc,  whose  pedestal, 

Black-mossed  and  dark  with  stain, 

Crumbles  in  sun  and  rain. 

How  wan  they  seem  to  fall 

Around  one  where  she  stands 
Dim  in  their  midst,  beyond  the  years'  recall, 

Reaching  pale,  passionate  hands 

Into  the  past's  vague  lands. 

How  still  they  fall  and  fall 

Around  them  where  they  meet 
As  oft  of  old:  she  in  her  gem-pinned  shawl 

Of  white ;  and  he,  complete 

In  black  from  head  to  feet. 

How  faint  the  rose  leaves  fall 
Around  them  where,  it  seems, 


ROSE    LEAVES  I 25 

He  holds  her  clasped — parting  from  her  and  all 
His  heart's  young  hopes  and  dreams 
There  in  the  moon's  thin  beams. 

Around  them  rose  leaves  fall — 

And  in  the  stress  and  urge 
Of  winds  that  strew  them  lightly  over  all, 

With  deep,  autumnal  surge, 

There  seems  to  rise  a  dirge:—- 

"  See  how  the  rose  leaves  fall 

Upon  thy  dead,  O  soul! 
The  rose  leaves  of  the  love  that  once  in  thrall 

Held  thee  beyond  control, 

Making  thy  heart's  world  whole. 

' '  God  help  them  still  to  fall 

Around  thee,  bowed  above 
The  face  within  thy  heart,  beneath  the  pall! 

The  perished  face  thereof, 

The  beautiful  face  of  Love." 


THE  LAMP  AT    THE  WINDOW 

LIKE  some  gaunt  ghost  the  tempest  wails 

Outside  my  door;  its  icy  nails 

Beat  on  the  pane:  and  Night  and  Storm 

Around  the  house,  with  furious  flails 

Of  wind,  from  which  the  slant  sleet  hails, 

Stalk  up  and  down;  or,  arm  in  arm, 

Stand  giant  guard;  the  wild-beast  lair 

Of  their  fierce  bosoms  black  and  bare.     .     .     . 

My  lamp  is  lit,  I  have  no  fear. 

Through  night  and  storm  my  love  draws  near. 

Now  through  the  forest  how  they  go, 
With  whirlwind  hoofs  and  manes  of  snow, 
The  beasts  of  tempest,  Winter  herds! 

That  lift  huge  heads  of  mist  and  low 
126 


THE    LAMP   AT   THE   WINDOW          127 

Like  oxen;  beasts  of  air  that  blow 
Ice  from  their  nostrils;  winged  like  birds, 
And  bullock-breasted,  onward  hurled, 
That  shake  with  tumult  all  the  world.     .     .     . 
My  lamp  is  set  where  love  can  see, 
Who  through  the  tempest  comes  to  me. 

I  press  my  face  against  the  pane, 
And  seem  to  see,  from  wood  and  plain, 
In  phantom  thousands,  stormy  pale, 
The  ghosts  of  forests,  tempest-slain, 
Vast  wraiths  of  woodlands,  rise  and  strain 
And  rock  wild  limbs  against  the  gale; 
Or,  borne  in  fragments  overhead, 
Sow  night  with  horror  and  with  dread.     .     .     . 
He  comes!  my  light  is  as  an  arm 
To  guide  him  onward  through  the  storm. 

I  hear  the  tempest  from  the  sky 
Cry,  eagle-like,  its  battle-cry; 


128          THE   LAMP   AT   THE   WINDOW 

I  hear  the  night,  upon  the  peaks, 

Send  back  its  condor-like  reply; 

And  then  again  come  booming  by 

The  forest's  challenge,  hoarse  as  speaks 

Hate  unto  hate,  or  wrath  to  wrath, 

When    each    draws     sword     and     sweeps    the 

path.  , 

But  let  them  rage!  through  darkness  far 
My  bright  light  leads  him  like  a  star. 

The  cliffs,  with  all  their  plumes  of  pines, 

Bow  down  high  heads:  the  battle-lines 

Of  all  the  hills,  that  iron  seams, 

Shudder  through  all  their  rocky  spines: 

And  under  shields  of  matted  vines 

The  vales  crouch  down:  and  all  the  streams 

Are  hushed  and  frozen  as  with  fear 

As  from  the  deeps  the  winds  draw  near.     .     .    . 

But  let  them  come!  my  lamp  is  lit! 

Nor  shall  their  fury  flutter  it. 


THE  LAMP  AT  THE  WINDOW    I2Q 

Now  'round  and  'round,  with  stride  on  stride, 
In  Boreal  armor,  darkness-dyed, 
I  hear  the  thunder  of  their  strokes — 
The  heavens  are  rocked  on  every  side 
With  all  their  clouds :  and  far  and  wide 
The  earth  roars  back  with  all  its  oaks. 
Still  at  the  pane  burns  bright  my  light 
To  guide  him  onward  through  the  night; 
To  lead  love  through  the  night  and  storm 
Where  my  young  heart  shall  make  him  warm. 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  THE   DAWN 

WHAT  it  would  mean  for  you  and  me 
If  dawn  should  come  no  more ! 

Think  of  its  gold  along  the  sea, 
Its  rose  above  the  shore! 

That  rose  of  awful  mystery, 
Our  souls  bow  down  before. 

What  wonder  that  the  Inca  kneeled, 
The  Aztec  prayed  and  pled 

And  sacrificed  to  it,  and  sealed, — 
With  rights  that  long  are  dead, — 

The  marvels  that  it  once  revealed 
To  them  it  comforted. 

What  wonder,  yea!  what  awe,  behold! 

What  rapture  and  what  tears 
130 


THE   MIRACLE   OF   THE   DAWN         131 

Were  ours,  if  wild  its  rivered  gold,— 
That  now  each  day  appears, — 

Burst  on  the  world,  in  darkness  rolled, 
Once  every  thousand  years! 

Think  what  it  means  to  me  and  you 

To  see  it  even  as  God 
Evolved  it  when  the  world  was  new! 

When  Light  rose,  earthquake-shod, 
And  slow  its  gradual  splendor  grew 

O'er  deeps  the  whirlwind  trod. 

What  shoutings  then  and  cymballings 

Arose  from  depth  and  height ! 
What  worship-solemn  trumpetings, 

And  thunders,  burning-white, 
Of  winds  and  waves,  and  anthemings 

Of  Earth  received  the  Light. 

Think  what  it  means  to  see  the  dawn! 
The  dawn,  that  comes  each  day! — 


132        THE    MIRACLE   OF  THE   DAWN 

What  if  the  East  should  ne'er  grow  wan, 
Should  nevermore  grow  gray! 

That  line  of  rose  no  more  be  drawn 
Above  the  ocean's  spray! 


PENETRALIA 

I  AM  a  part  of  all  you  see 

In  Nature ;  part  of  all  you  feel : 

I  am  the  impact  of  the  bee 

Upon  the  blossom ;  in  the  tree 

I  am  the  sap, — that  shall  reveal 

The  leaf,  the  bloom, — that  flows  and  flutes 

Up  from  the  darkness  through  its  roots. 

I  am  the  vermeil  of  the  rose, 

The  perfume  breathing  in  its  veins; 

The  gold  within  the  mist  that  glows 

Along  the  west  and  overflows 

The  heaven  with  light;  the  dew  that  rains 

Its  freshness  down  and  strings  with  spheres 

Of  wet  the  webs  and  oaten  ears. 


134  PENETRALIA 

I  am  the  egg  that  folds  the  bird, 

The  song  that  beaks  and  breaks  its  shell; 

The  laughter  and  the  wandering  word 

The  water  says;  and,  dimly  heard, 

The  music  of  the  blossom's  bell 

When  soft  winds  swing  it ;  and  the  sound 

Of  grass  slow-creeping  o'er  the  ground. 

I  am  the  warmth,  the  honey-scent 
That  throats  with  spice  each  lily-bud 
That  opens,  white  with  wonderment, 
Beneath  the  moon ;  or,  downward  bent, 
Sleeps  with  a  moth  beneath  its  hood : 
I  am  the  dream  that  haunts  it  too, 
That  crystallizes  into  dew. 

I  am  the  seed  within  its  pod; 

The  worm  within  its  closed  cocoon : 

The  wings  within  the  circling  clod, 


PENETRALIA  135 

The  germ  that  gropes  through  soil  and  sod 
To  beauty,  radiant  in  the  noon : 
I  am  all  these,  behold!  and  more — 
I  am  the  love  at  the  world-heart's  core. 


THE   HEAVEN-BORN 

NOT  into  these  dark  cities, 

These  sordid  marts  and  streets, 
That  the  sun  in  his  rising  pities, 

And  the  moon  with  sorrow  greets, 
Does  she,  with  her  dreams  and  flowers, 

For  whom  our  hearts  are  dumb, 
Does  she  of  the  golden  hours, 

Earth's  heaven-born  Beauty,  come. 

Afar  'mid  the  hills  she  tarries, 
Beyond  the  farthest  streams, 

In  a  world  where  music  marries 
With  color  that  blooms  and  beams ; 

Where  shadow  and  light  are  wedded, 

Whose  children  people  the  Earth, 
136 


THE   HEAVEN-BORN  137 

The  fair,  the  fragrant-headed, 
The  pure,  the  wild  of  birth. 

Where  Morn  with  rosy  kisses 

Wakes  ever  the  eyes  of  Day; 
And,  winds  in  her  radiant  tresses, 

Haunts  every  wildwood  way: 
Where  Eve,  with  her  mouth's  twin  roses, 

Her  kisses  sweet  with  balm, 
The  eyes  of  the  glad  Day  closes, 

And,  crowned  with  stars,  sits  calm. 

There,  lost  in  contemplation 

Of  things  no  mortal  sees, 
She  dwells,  the  incarnation 

Of  idealities ; 
Of  dreams,  that  long  have  fired 

Men's  hearts  with  joy  and  pain, — 
The  far,  the  dear-desired, 

Whom  no  man  shall  attain. 


EARTH'S  COMMONPLACES 


139 


THE   WORLD   OF   FAERY 


WHEN  in  the  pansy-purpled  stain 
Of  sunset  one  far  star  is  seen, 

Like  some  bright  drop  of  rain, 
Out  of  the  forest,  deep  and  green, 
O'er  me  a  Spirit  seems  to  lean, 

The  fairest  of  her  train. 

II 

The  Spirit,  dowered  with  fadeless  youth, 
Of  Lay  and  Legend,  young  as  when, 

Close  to  her  side,  in  sooth, 
She  led  me  from  the  marts  of  men, 
A  child,  into  her  world,  which  then 

To  me  was  true  as  truth. 
141 


142  THE   WORLD   OF   FAERY 

III 

Her  hair  is  like  the  silken  husk 

That  holds  the  corn,  and  glints  and  glows; 

Her  brow  is  white  as  tusk ; 
Her  body  like  a  wilding  rose, 
And  through  her  gossamer  raiment  shows 

Like  starlight  closed  in  musk. 

IV 

She  smiles  at  me ;  she  nods  at  me ; 
And  by  her  looks  I  am  beguiled 

Into  the  mystery 

Of  ways  I  knew  when,  as  a  child, 
She  led  me  'mid  her  blossoms  wild 

Of  faery  fantasy. 


The  blossoms  that,  when  night  is  here, 
Become  sweet  mouths  that  sigh  soft  tales; 
Or,  each,  a  jewelled  ear 


THE  WORLD   OF  FAERY  143 

Leaned  to  the  elfin  dance  that  trails 
Down  moonrayed  cirques  of  haunted  vales 
To  cricket  song  and  cheer. 

VI 

The  blossoms  that,  shut  fast  all  day, — 
Primrose  and  poppy, — darkness  opes, 

Slowly,  to  free  a  fay, 
Who,  silken-soft,  leaps  forth  and  ropes 
With  rain  each  web  that,  starlit,  slopes 

Between  each  grassy  spray. 

VII 

The  blossoms  from  which  elves  are  born, — 
Sweet  wombs  of  mingled  scent  and  snow, 

Whose  deeps  are  cool  as  morn; 
Wherein  I  oft  have  heard  them  blow 
Their  pixy  trumpets,  silvery  low 

As  some  bee's  drowsy  horn. 


144  THE   WORLD   OF  FAERY 

VIII 

So  was  it  when  my  childhood  roamed 
The  woodland's  dim  enchanted  ground, 

Where  every  mushroom  domed 
Its  disc  for  them  to  revel  'round; 
Each    glow-worm    forged    its    flame,  —  green- 
drowned 

In  hollow  snow  that  foamed 

IX 

Of  lilies, — for  their  lantern  light, 

To  lamp  their  dance  beneath  the  moon ; 

Each  insect  of  the  night, — 
That  rasped  its  thin,  vibrating  tune,- — 
And  owl  that  raised  its  sleepy  croon, 

Made  music  for  their  flight. 


So  is  it  still  when  twilight  fills 

My  soul  with  childhood's  memories 


THE   WORLD   OF  FAERY  145 

That  haunt  the  far-off  hills, 
And  people  with  dim  things  the  trees, — 
With  faery  forms  that  no  man  sees, 

And  dreams  that  no  man  kills. 

XI 

Then  all  around  me  sway  and  swing 
The  Puck-lights  of  their  firefly  train, 

Their  elfin  revelling; 
And  in  the  bursting  pods,  that  rain 
Their  seeds  around  my  steps,  again 

I  hear  their  footsteps  ring; — 

XII 

Their  faery  feet  that  fall  once  more 
Within  my  way; — and  then  I  see,— 

As  oft  I  saw  before, — 
Her  Spirit  rise,  who  shimmeringly 
Fills  all  my  world  with  poetry, — 

The  Loveliness  of  Yore. 


THERE   ARE   FAIRIES 


THERE  are  fairies,  bright  of  eye, 

Who  the  wildflowers'  warders  are 
Ouphes  that  chase  the  firefly; 

Elves  that  ride  the  shooting  star; 
Fays  who  in  a  cobweb  lie, 

Swinging  on  a  moonbeam-bar, 
Or  who  harness  bumblebees, 
Grumbling  on  the  clover  leas, 
To  a  blossom  or  a  breeze, 

That 's  their  fairy  car. 
If  you  care,  you  too  may  see 
There  are  fairies — verily 

There  are  fairies. 
146 


THERE   ARE   FAIRIES  147 

II 

There  are  fairies.     I  could  swear 

I  have  seen  them  busy  where 

Rose  leaves  loose  their  scented  hair, 

In  the  moonlight  weaving — weaving 
Out  of  starshine  and  the  dew 
Glinting  gown  and  shimmering  shoe; 
Or  within  a  glow-worm  lair 

From  the  dark  earth  slowly  heaving 
Mushrooms  whiter  than  the  moon, 
On  whose  tops  they  sit  and  croon, 
With  their  grig-like  mandolins, 
To  fair  fairy  ladykins, 
Leaning  from  the  window-sill 
Of  a  rose  or  daffodil, 
Listening  to  their  serenade 
All  of  cricket  music  made. 
Follow  me,  oh,  follow  me! 
Ho!  away  to  faery! 


148  THERE  ARE  FAIRIES 

Where  your  eyes,  like  mine,  may  see 
There  are  fairies — verily 
There  are  fairies. 

Ill 

There  are  fairies:  elves  that  swing 
In  a  wild  and  rainbow  ring 
Through  the  air,  or  mount  the  wing 
Of  a  bat  to  courier  news 
To  the  fairy  queen  and  king; 

Fays  who  stretch  the  gossamers 
On  which  twilight  hangs  the  dews ; 

Or  who  whisper  in  the  ears 
Of  the  flowers  words  so  sweet 

That  their  hearts  are  turned  to  musk 
And  to  honey,  things  that  beat 
In  their  veins  of  gold  and  blue ; 

Ouphes  that  shepherd  moths  of  dusk- 
Soft  of  wing  and  gray  of  hue — 
Forth  to  pasture  on  the  dew. 


THERE   ARE   FAIRIES  149 

There  are  fairies — verily, 

Verily; 
For  the  old  owl  in  the  tree, 

Hollow  tree, — 
He  who  maketh  melody 
For  them  tripping  merrily, — 

Told  it  me. 

There  are  fairies — verily 

There  are  fairies. 


THE   LITTLE   PEOPLE 

I 

WHEN  the  lily  nods  in  slumber, 

And  the  roses  all  are  sleeping; 

When  the  night  hangs  deep  and  umber, 

And  the  stars  their  watch  are  keeping; 

When  the  clematis  uncloses 

Like  a  hand  of  snowy  fire, 

And  the  golden-lipped  primroses, 

To  the  tiger-moths'  desire, 

Each  a  mouth  of  musk  unpuckers — 

Silken  pouts  of  scented  sweetness, 

That  they  sip  with  honey-suckers; — 

Shod  with  hush  and  winged  with  fleetness, 

You  may  see  the  Little  People, 

'Round  and  'round  the  drowsy  steeple 
150 


THE   LITTLE   PEOPLE 

Of  a  belfried  hollyhock, — 
Clothed  in  phlox  and  four-o'clock, 
Gay  of  gown  and  pantaloon, — 
Dancing  by  the  glimmering  moon, 
Till  the  cock,  the  long-necked  cock, 
Crows  them  they  must  vanish  soon. 

II 

When  the  cobweb  is  a  cradle 
For  the  dreaming  dew  to  sleep  in; 
And  each  blossom  is  a  ladle 
That  the  perfumed  rain  lies  deep  in; 
When  the  gleaming  fireflies  scribble 
Darkness  as  with  lines  flame-tragic, 
And  the  night  seems  some  dim  sibyl 
Speaking  gold,  or  wording  magic 
Silent-syllabled  and  golden; — 
Capped  with  snapdragon  and  hooded 
With  the  sweet-pea,  vague-beholden, 
You  may  see  the  Little  People, 


152  THE   LITTLE   PEOPLE 

Underneath  the  sleepy  steeple 

Of  a  towering  mullen-stock, 

Trip  it  over  moss  and  rock 

To  the  owlet's  elvish  tune 

And  the  tree-toad's  gnome  bassoon, 

Till  the  cock,  the  barnyard  cock, 

Crows  them  they  must  vanish  soon. 

Ill 

When  the  wind  upon  the  water 
Seems  a  boat  of  ray  and  ripple, 
That  some  fairy  moonbeam  daughter 
Steers  with  sails  that  drift  and  dripple; 
When  the  sound  of  grig  and  cricket, 
Ever  singing,  ever  humming, 
Seems  a  goblin  in  the  thicket 
On  his  elfin  viol  strumming; 
When  the  toadstool,  coned  and  milky, 
Heaves  a  roof  for  snails  to  clamber; 
Thistledown-  and  milkweed-silky, 


THE   LITTLE   PEOPLE  153 

With  loose  locks  of  jade  and  amber, 
You  may  see  the  Little  People, 
Underneath  the  pixy  steeple 
Of  a  dome"d  mushroom,  flock, 
Quaint  in  wildflower  vest  and  frock, 
Whirling  by  the  waning  moon 
To  the  whippoorwill's  weird  tune, 
Till  the  cock,  the  far-off  cock, 
Crows  them  they  must  vanish  soon. 


ON    MIDSUMMER   NIGHT 


ALL  the  poppies  in  their  beds 
Nodding  crumpled  crimson  heads; 
And  the  larkspurs,  in  whose  ears 
Twilight  hangs,  like  twinkling  tears, 
Sleepy  jewels  of  the  rain; 
All  the  violets,  that  strain 
Eyes  of  amethystine  gleam ; 
And  the  clover-blooms  that  dream 
With  pink  baby  fists  closed  tight, — 
They  can  hear  upon  this  night, 
Noiseless  as  the  moon's  white  light, 
Footsteps  and  the  glimmering  flight, 

Shimmering  flight, 

Of  the  Fairies. 


ON   MIDSUMMER  NIGHT  155 

II 

Every  sturdy  four-o'clock, 

In  its  variegated  frock; 

Every  slender  sweet-pea,  too, 

In  its  hood  of  pearly  hue; 

Every  primrose  pale  that  dozes 

By  the  wall  and  slow  uncloses 

A  sweet  mouth  of  dewy  dawn 

In  a  little  silken  yawn, — 

On  this  night  of  silvery  sheen, 

They  can  see  the  Fairy  Queen, 

On  her  palfrey  white,  I  ween, 

Tread  dim  cirques  of  haunted  green, 

Moonlit  green, 

With  her  Fairies. 

Ill 

Never  a  foxglove  bell,  you  see, 
That  's  a  cradle  for  a  bee; 
Never  a  lily,  that  's  a  house 


156  ON   MIDSUMMER  NIGHT 

Where  the  butterfly  may  drowse; 
Never  a  rosebud  or  a  blossom, 
That  unfolds  its  honeyed  bosom 
To  the  moth,  that  nestles  deep 
And  there  sucks  itself  to  sleep, — 
But  can  hear  and  also  see, 
On  this  night  of  witchery, 
All  that  world  of  Faery, 
All  that  world  where  airily, 

Merrily, 

Dance  the  Fairies. 

IV 

It  was  last  Midsummer  Night, 
In  the  moon's  uncertain  light, 
That  I  stood  among  the  flowers, 
And  in  language  unlike  ours 
Heard  them  speaking  of  the  Pixies, 
Trolls  and  Gnomes  and  Water-Nixies; 
How  in  this  flowVs  ear  a  Fay 


ON   MIDSUMMER   NIGHT  157 

Hung  a  gem  of  rainy  ray; 

And  'round  that  flow'r's  throat  had  set 

Dim  a  dewdrop  carcanet; 

Then  among  the  mignonette 

Stretched  a  cobweb-hammock  wet, 

Dewy  wet, 

For  the  Fairies. 


Long  I  watched;  but  never  a  one, 
Ariel,  Puck,  or  Oberon, 
Mab  or  Queen  Titania — 
Fairest  of  them  all  they  say — 
Clad  in  morning-glory  hues, 
Did  I  glimpse  among  the  dews. 
Only  once  I  thought  the  torch 
Of  that  elfin-rogue  and  arch, 
Robin  Goodfellow,  afar 
Flashed  along  a  woodland  bar — 


158  ON   MIDSUMMER  NIGHT 

Bright,  a  jack-o'-lantern  star, 
A  green  lamp  of  firefly  spar, 
Glow-worm  spar, 
Loved  of  Fairies. 


THE   WILLOW   WATER 

DEEP  in  the  hollow  wood  he  found  a  way 
Winding  unto  a  water,  dim  and  gray, 
Grayer  and  dimmer  than  the  break  of  day; 
By  which  a  wildrose  blossomed;  flower  on  flower 
Leaning  above  its  image  hour  on  hour, 
Musing,  it  seemed,  on  its  own  loveliness, 
And  longing  with  sweet  longing  to  express 
Some  thought  to  its  reflection. 

Dropping  now 

Bee-shaken  pollen  from  th'  o'erburdened  bough, 
And  now  a  petal,  delicate  as  a  blush, 
It  seemed  to  sigh  or  whisper  to  the  hush 
The  dreams,  the  myths  and  marvels  it  had  seen 
Tip-toeing  dimly  through  the  woodland  green: 


l6o  THE   WILLOW    WATER 

Faint  shapes  of  fragrance;  forms  like  flowers, 
that  go 

Footing  the  moss;  or,  shouldered  with  moon 
beam  glow, 

Through  starlit  waves  oaring  an  arm  of  snow. 

He  sat  him  down  and  gazed  into  the  pool: 

And  as  he  gazed,  two  petals,  silken  cool, 

Fell,  soft  as  starbeams  fall  that  arrow  through 

The  fern-hung  trembling  of  a  drop  of  dew ; 

And,  pearly-placid,  on  the  water  lay, 

Two  curves  of  languid  ruby,  where,  rose-gray, 

The  shadow  of  a  willow  dimmed  the  stream. 

And  suddenly  he  saw — or  did  he  dream 

He  saw? — the  rose-leaves  change  to  rosy  lips, 

A  laughing  crimson.     And,  with  silvery  hips, 

And  eyes  of  luminous  emerald,  full  of  sleep 

And  all  the  stillness  of  the  under  deep, 

The  shadow  of  the  tree  become  a  girl, 

A  shadowy  girl,  who  shook  from  many  a  curl 


THE   WILLOW   WATER  l6l 

Faint,  tangled  glimmerings  of  shell  and  pearl. 
A  girl  who  called  him,  beckoned  him  to  come, 
Waving  a  hand  whiter  than  moonlit  foam, 
And  pointing,  minnowy  fingered,  to  her  home — 
A  bubble,  rainbow-built,  beneath  the  wave, 
Dim-domed,   and  murmurous  as  the    deep-sea 

cave, 

Columned  of  coral  and  of  grottoed  foam, 
Where  the  pale  mermaids  never  cease  to  comb 
Their  weed-green  hair  with  fingers  crystal-cold, 
Sighing  forever  'round  the  Sea  King  old 
Throned  on  his  throne  of  shell  and  ribbed  gold. 

Laughing,  she  lured  him,  lipped  like  some  wild- 
rose; 

Bidding  him  follow;  come  to  her;  repose 
Upon  her  bosom  and  forever  dream 
Lulled  by  the  wandering  whisper  of  the  stream. 
But  him  mortality  weighed  heavily  on 
And  earthly  love:  and,  sorrowful  and  wan, 


162  THE   WILLOW   WATER 

He  shook  his  head,  motioning,  "  I  cannot  rise  "  ; 
But  still  he  felt  the  magic  of  her  eyes 
Drawing  him  to  her;  felt  her  hands  of  foam 
Around  his  heart;  her  lips,  that  bade  him  come 
With  smiling  witchery,  and  with  laughing  looks 
Like  those  that  lured  us  in  the  fairy  books 
Our  childhood  dreamed  on.     .     .     . 

Then,  as  suddenly, 

A  wind,  it  seemed,  from  no  where  he  could  see, 
Wrinkled  the  water;  ruffled  its  smooth  glass; 
And  there  again,  behold !  when  it  did  pass 
The  rose-leaves  lay  and  shadow,  dimly  seen; 
The  willow's  shadow,  and  no  thing  between. 


ELUSION 


MY  soul  goes  out  to  her  who  says, 
"  Come  follow  me  and  cast  off  care!  " 
Then  tosses  back  her  sunbright  hair, 
And  like  a  flower  before  me  sways 
Between  the  green  leaves  and  my  gaze: 
This  creature  like  a  girl,  who  smiles 
Into  my  eyes  and  softly  lays 
Her  hand  in  mine  and  leads  me  miles, 
Long  miles  of  haunted  forest  ways. 

II 

Sometimes  she  seems  a  faint  perfume, 
A  fragrance  that  a  flower  exhaled 
And  God  gave  form  to;  now,  unveiled, 

A  sunbeam  making  gold  the  gloom 
163 


164  ELUSION 

Of  vines  that  roof  some  woodland  room 
Of  boughs;  and  now  the  silvery  sound 
Of  streams  her  presence  doth  assume — 
Music,  from  which,  in  dreaming  drowned, 
A  crystal  shadow  she  seems  to  bloom. 

Ill 

Sometimes  she  seems  the  light  that  lies 
On  foam  of  waters  where  the  fern 
Shimmers  and  drips;  now,  at  some  turn 
Of  woodland,  bright  against  the  skies, 
She  seems  the  rainbowed  mist  that  flies; 
And  now  the  mossy  fire  that  breaks 
Beneath  the  feet  in  azure  eyes 
Of  flowers;  and  now  the  wind  that  shakes 
Pale  petals  from  the  bough  that  sighs. 

IV 

Sometimes  she  lures  me  with  a  song; 
Sometimes  she  guides  me  with  a  laugh ; 


ELUSION  165 

Her  white  hand  is  a  magic  staff, 

Her  look  a  spell  to  lead  me  long: 

Though  she  be  weak  and  I  be  strong, 

She  needs  but  shake  her  happy  hair, 

But  glance  her  eyes,  and,  right  or  wrong, 

My  soul  must  follow — anywhere 

She  wills — far  from  the  world's  loud  throng. 

V 

Sometimes  I  think  that  she  must  be 

No  part  of  earth,  but  merely  this — 

The  fair,  elusive  thing  we  miss 

In  Nature,  that  we  dream  we  see 

Yet  never  see:  that  goldenly 

Beckons:  that,  limbed  with  rose  and  pearl, 

The  Greek  made  a  divinity: — 

A  nymph,  a  god,  a  glimmering  girl, 

That  haunts  the  forest's  mystery. 


THE   LOST   GARDEN 

ROSES,  brier  on  brier, 

Like  a  hedge  of  fire, 

Walled  it  from  the  world  and  rolled 

Crimson  'round  it;  manifold 

Blossoms,  'mid  which  once  of  old 

Walked  my  Heart's  Desire. 

There  the  golden  Hours 
Dwelt;  and  'mid  the  bowers 
Beauty  wandered  like  a  maid; 
And  the  Dreams  that  never  fade 
Sat  within  its  haunted  shade 
Gazing  at  the  flowers. 

There  the  winds  that  vary 

Melody  and  marry 
166 


THE   LOST   GARDEN  167 

Perfume  unto  perfume,  went, 
Whispering  to  the  buds,  that  bent, 
Messages  whose  wonderment 
Made  them  sweet  to  carry. 

There  the  waters  hoary 
Murmured  many  a  story 
To  the  leaves  that  leaned  above, 
Listening  to  their  tales  of  love, 
While  the  happiness  thereof 
Flushed  their  green  with  glory. 

There  the  sunset's  shimmer 

'Mid  the  bowers, — dimmer 

Than  the  woods  where  Fable  dwells, 

And  Romance  her  legends  tells, — 

Wrought  dim  dreams  and  dimmer  spells, 

Filled  with  golden  glimmer. 

There  at  night  the  wonder 
Of  the  moon  would  sunder 


1 68  THE   LOST   GARDEN 

Foliage  deeps  with  breast  of  pearl, 
Wandering  like  a  glimmering  girl, 
Fair  of  form  and  bright  of  curl, 
Through  the  trees  and  under. 

There  the  stars  would  follow, 
Over  hill  and  hollow, 
Spirit  shapes  that  danced  the  dew 
From  frail  cups  of  sparry  hue ; 
Firefly  forms  that  fleeter  flew 
Than  the  fleetest  swallow. 

There  my  heart  made  merry ; 
There,  'mid  bloom  and  berry, 
Dreamed  the  dreams  that  are  no  more, 
In  that  garden  lost  of  yore, 
Set  in  seas,  without  a  shore, 
That  no  man  may  ferry. 

Where  perhaps  her  lyre, — 
Wreathed  with  serest  brier, — 


THE    LOST   GARDEN  169 

Sorrow  strikes  now;  sad  its  gold 
Sighing  where,  'mid  roses  old, 
Fair  of  face  and  dead  and  cold 
Lies  my  Heart's  Desire. 


GLAMOUR 

WITH  fall  on  fall,  from  wood  to  wood, 
The  brook  pours  mossy  music  down — 

Or  is  it,  in  the  solitude, 

The  murmur  of  a  Faery  town? 

A  town  of  Elfland  filled  with  bells 
And  holiday  of  hurrying  feet: 

Or  traffic  now,  whose  small  sound  swells, 
Now  sinks  from  busy  street  to  street. 

Whose  Folk  I  often  recognize 

In  winged  things  that  hover  'round, 
Who  to  men's  eyes  assume  disguise 

When  on  some  elfin  errand  bound. 
170 


GLAMOUR  I/I 

The  bee,  that  haunts  the  touchmenot, — 
Big-bodied,  making  braggart  din — 

Is  fairy  brother  to  that  sot, 

Jack  Falstaff  of  the  Boar's  Head  Inn. 

The  dragonfly,  whose  wings  of  black 
Are  mantle  for  his  garb  of  green, 

Is  Ancient  to  this  other  Jack, — 
Another  Pistol,  long  and  lean. 

The  butterfly,  in  royal  tints, 

Is  Hal,  mad  Hal,  in  cloth  of  gold, 

Who  passes  these,  as  once  that  Prince 
Passed  his  companions  boon  of  old. 


LATE   OCTOBER   WOODS 

CLUMPED  in  the  shadow  of  the  beech,— 
In  whose  brown  top  the  crows  are  loud, — 

Where,  every  side,  great  briers  reach 

And  cling  like  hands, — the  beechdrops  crowd 

The  mossy  cirque  with  neutral  tints 

Of  gray;  and  deep,  with  berries  bowed, 

The  buckbush  reddens  'mid  the  mints. 

O'erhead  the  forest  scarcely  stirs: 

The  wind  is  laid:  the  sky  is  blue: 
Bush-clover,  with  its  links  of  burs, 

And  some  last  blooms, — few,  pink  of  hue, — 
Makes  wild  the-  way :  and  everywhere 

Slim,  white-ribbed  cones  of  fungi  strew 

The  grass  that  's  like  a  wildman's  hair. 
172 


LATE   OCTOBER  WOODS  173 

The  jewel-weeds,  whose  pods  bombard 

The  hush  with  fairy  batteries 
Of  seeds,  grow  dense  here;  pattering  hard 

Their  sacs  explode,  persuade  the  eyes 
To  search  the  heaven  for  show'rs. — One  seems 

To  walk  where  old  Enchantment  plies 
Her  shuttle  of  lost  days  and  dreams. 

And,  lo!  yon  rock  of  fern  and  flower, 

That  heaves  its  height  from  bramble  deeps, 

All  on  a  sudden  seems  the  tower 
Wherein  the  Sleeping  Beauty  sleeps: 

And  that  red  vine,  the  fire- drake, 

The  flaming  dragon,  seems,  that  keeps 

The  world  from  her  no  man  may  wake. 


IN   THE   BEECH   WOODS 

AMBER  and  emerald,  cairngorm  and  chrysoprase, 
Stream  through  the  autumn  woods,  scatter  the 

beech-wood  ways: 
Ways   where    the    wahoo-bush   brightens    with 

scarlet; 
And  where  the  aster-stalk  lifts  its  last  starlet. 

Ways  where  the  brier  burns ;  poplars  drop,  one 

by  one, 
Leaves  that  seem  beaten  gold,  each  like  a  splash 

of  sun : 
'Round  which  the  beeches  rise,  tree  upon  golden 

tree, 
That,  with  each  wind  that  blows,  sound  like  a 

summer  sea. 

174 


IN  THE   BEECH   WOODS  175 

Ways  where  the  papaw  leans,  great-leaved  and 

beryl-green, 
Like  some  grand  forester  one  in  Romance  hath 

seen ; 

And  like  some  Indian  queen,  sung  of  in  story, 
Flaming  the  gum-tree  stands,  crowned  with  its 

glory. 

Ways  where  the  bittersweet,  cleaving  its  pods 

of  gold, 
Brightens   the   brake   with    flame,    torches   the 

dingle  old: 
And  where  the  dogwood  too  crimsons  with  ruby 

seeds; 
Spicewood  and  buckbush  bend  ruddy  with  rosy 

beads. 

These  are  the  woods  of  gold ;  forests  our  child 
hood  knew, 

Where  the  Enchanted  dwelt,  she  with  the  eyes 
of  blue; 


176  IN  THE   BEECH   WOODS 

She  of  the  raven  locks,  and  of  the  lovely  looks, 
She  who  oft  gazed  at  us  out  of  the  Story  Books. 

And  with  that  Prince  again,  striding  his  snow- 
white  steed, 

To  her  deliverance  through  the  gold  wood  we 
speed ; 

On  through  the  wood  of  flame  to  the  Dark 
Tower, 

Where  like  a  light  she  gleams  high  in  her  bower. 


THE   WORD   IN   THE   WOOD 

I 

THE  acorn-oak 
Sullens  to  sombre  crimson  all  its  leaves ; 

And  where  it  hugely  heaves 
A  giant  head  dark  as  congested  blood, 
The  gum-tree  towers,  against  the  sky  a  stroke 
Of  purpling  gold;  and  every  blur  of  wood 
Is  color  on  the  pallet  that  she  drops, 
The  Autumn,  dreaming  on  the  hazed  hilltops. 

II 

And  as  I  went 
Through  golden  forests  in  a  golden  land, 

Where  Magic  waved  her  wand 
And  dimmed  the  air  with  dreams  my  boyhood 
knew, 

12 

177 


THE   WORD   IN  THE  WOOD 

Enchantment  met  me;  and  again  she  bent 
Her  face  to  mine,  and  smiled  with  eyes  of  blue, 
And  kissed  me  on  the  mouth  and  bade  me  heed 
Old  tales  again  from  books  no  man  may  read. 

Ill 

And  at  her  word 
The  wood  became  transfigured;  and,  behold! 

With  hair  of  wavy  gold 

A  presence  walked  there;  and  its  beauty  was 
The  beauty  not  of  Earth :  and  then  I  heard 
Within  my  heart  vague  voices,  murmurous 
And  multitudinous  as  leaves  that  sow 
The  firmament  when  winds  of  autumn  blow. 

IV 

And  I  perceived 
The  voices  were  but  one  voice  made  of  sighs, 

That  sorrowed  in  this  wise: 
"  I  am  the  child-soul  that  grew  up  and  died, 


THE  WORD  IN  THE  WOOD     179 

The  child-soul  of  the  world  that  once  believed, 
Believed  in  me,  but  long  ago  denied; 
The  Faery  Faith  it  needs  no  more  to-day, 
The  folk-lore  Beauty  long  since  passed  away." 


THE   WOOD   WATER 

AN  evil,  stealthy  water,  dark  as  hate, 

Sunk  from  the  light  of  day, 
'Thwart  which  is  hung  a  ruined  water-gate, 

Creeps  on  its  stagnant  way. 

Moss  and  the  spawny  duckweed,  dim  as  air, 

And  green  as  copperas, 
Choke  its  dull  current;  and,  like  hideous  hair, 

Tangles  of  twisted  grass. 

Above  it  sinister  trees, — as  crouched  and  gaunt 

As  huddled  Terror, — lean; 
Guarding  some  secret  in  that  nightmare  haunt, 

Some  horror  they  have  seen. 
1 80 


THE   WOOD   WATER  l8l 

Something  the  sunset  points  at  from  afar, 

Spearing  the  sullen  wood 
And  hag-gray  water  with  a  single  bar 

Of  flame  as  red  as  blood. 

Something  the  stars,  conspiring  with  the  moon, 

Shall  look  on,  and  remain 
Frozen  with  fear;  staring  as  in  a  swoon, 

Striving  to  flee  in  vain. 

Something  the  wisp  that,  wandering  in  the  night, 

Above  the  ghastly  stream, 
Haply  shall  find;  and,  filled  with  frantic  fright, 

Light  with  its  ghostly  gleam. 

Something  that  lies  there,  under  weed  and  ooze, 

With  wide  and  awful  eyes 
And  matted  hair,  and  limbs  the  waters  bruise, 

That  strives,  yet  can  not  rise. 


THE    EGRET    HUNTER 

THROUGH  woods  the  Spanish  moss  makes  gray, 
With  deeps  the  daylight  never  reaches, 
The  water  sluices  slow  its  way, 
And  chokes  with  weeds  its  beaches. 

'T  was  here,  lost  in  this  lone  bayou, 
Where  poison  brims  each  blossom's  throat, 
Last  night  I  followed  a  firefly  glow, 
And  oared  a  leaky  boat. 

The  way  was  dark ;  and  overhead 
The  wailing  limpkin  moaned  and  cried; 
The  moss,  like  cerements  of  the  dead, 
Waved  wildly  on  each  side. 

The  way  was  black,  albeit  the  trees 

Let  here  and  there  the  moonlight  through, 
182 


THE   EGRET   HUNTER  183 

The  shadows,  'mid  the  cypress-knees, 
Seemed  ominous  of  hue. 

And  then  behold !  a  boat   that  oozed 
Slow  slime  and  trailed  rank  water-weeds, 
Loomed  on  me:  in  which,  interfused, 
Great  glow-worms  glowed  like  beads. 

And  in  its  rotting  hulk,  upright, 
His  eyeless  eyes  fixed  far  before, 
A  dead  man  sat,  and  stared  at  night, 
Grasping  a  rotting  oar. 

Slowly  it  passed;  and  fearfully 
The  moccasin  slid  in  its  wake ; 
The  owl  shrunk  shrieking  in  its  tree; 
And  in  its  hole  the  snake. 

But  I,  who  met  it  face  to  face, 
I  could  not  shrink  or  turn  aside: 


1 84  THE  EGRET   HUNTER 

Within  that  dark  and  demon  place 
There  was  no  place  to  hide. 

Slowly  it  passed ;  for  me  too  slow ! 
The  grim  Death,  in  the  moon's  faint  shine, 
Whose  story,  haply,  none  may  know 
Save  th'  owl  that  haunts  the  pine. 


THE   NIGHT-WIND 


I  HAVE  heard  the  wind  on  a  winter's  night, 
When  the  snow-cold  moon  looked  icily  through 

My  window's  flickering  firelight, 
Where  the  frost  his  witchery  drew: 

I  have  heard  the  wind  on  a  winter's  night, 

Wandering  ways  that  were  frozen  white, 
Wail  in  my  chimney-flue: 

And  its  voice  was  the  voice, — so  it  seemed  to 
me,— 

The  voice  of  the  world's  vast  misery. 

II 

I  have  heard  the  wind  on  a  night  of  spring, 
When  the  leaves  unclasped  their  girdles  of 

gold, 

185 


1 86  THE  NIGHT- WIND 

And  the  bird  on  the  bough  sang  slumbering, 

In  the  lilac's  fragrant  fold: 
I  have  heard  the  wind  on  a  night  of  spring, 
Shaking  the  musk  from  its  dewy  wing, 

Sigh  in  my  garden  old: 

And  it  seemed  that  it  said,  as  it  sighed  above, 
"  I  am  the  voice  of  the  Earth's  great  love." 


Ill 

I  have  heard  the  wind  on  a  night  of  fall, 

When  a  devil's-dance  was  the  rain's  down 
pour, 
And  the  wild  woods  reeled  to  its  demon  call, 

And  the  carpet  fluttered  the  floor: 
I  have  heard  the  wind  on  a  night  of  fall, 
Heaping  the  leaves  by  the  garden  wall, 

Weep  at  my  close-shut  door: 
And  its  voice,  so  it  seemed,  as  it  sorrowed  there, 
Was  the  old,  old  voice  of  the  world's  despair. 


THE  NIGHT-WIND  l8/ 

IV 

I  have  heard  the  wind  on  a  summer  night, 
When  the  myriad  stars  stormed  heaven  with 

fire, 
And    the    moon-moth   glimmered    in    phantom 

flight, 

And  the  crickets  creaked  in  choir: 
I  have  heard  the  wind  on  a  summer  night, 
Rocking  the  red  rose  and  the  white, 

Murmur  in  bloom  and  brier: 
And  its  voice  was  the  voice, — so  it  seemed  to 

me, — 
Of  Earth's  primordial  mystery. 


GOD'S   GREEN   BOOK 


OUT,  out  in  the  open  fields, 

Where  the  great,  green  book  of  God,- 
The  book  that  its  wisdom  yields 

To  each  soul  that  is  not  a  clod,— 
Lies  wide  for  the  world  to  read, 
I  would  go;  and  in  flower  and  weed, 
That  letter  the  lines  of  the  grass, 
Would  read  of  a  better  creed 
Than  that  which  the  town-world  has. 


II 


Too  long  in  the  city  streets, 

The  alleys  of  grime  and  sin, 
188 


GOD'S  GREEN   BOOK  189 

Have  I  heard  the  iron  beats 

Of  the  heart  of  toil ;  whose  din 
And  the  throb  of  whose  wild  unrest 
Have  stunned  the  song  in  my  breast, 
Have  marred  its  music  and  slain 
The  bird  that  was  once  its  guest, 
And  my  soul  would  find  it  again. 

Ill 

Out  there  where  the  great,  green  book, 
Whose  leaves  are  the  grass  and  trees, 

Lies  open;  where  each  may  look, 
May  muse  and  read  as  he  please; 

The  book,  that  is  gilt  with  gleams, 

Whose  pages  are  ribboned  with  streams; 

That  says  what  our  souls  would  say 

Of  beauty  that  's  wrought  of  dreams 

And  buds  and  blossoms  of  May. 


A  WET   DAY 

DARK,  drear,  and  drizzly,  with  vapor  grizzly, 
The  day  goes  dully  unto  its  close; 
Its  wet  robe  smutches  each  thing  it  touches, 
Its  fingers  sully  and  wreck  the  rose. 

Around  the  railing  and  garden-paling 

The  dripping  lily  hangs  low  its  head: 

A  brood-mare  whinnies;  and  hens  and  guineas 

Droop,  damp  and  chilly,  beneath  the  shed. 

In  splashing  mire  about  the  byre 

The  cattle  huddle,  the  farmhand  plods ; 

While  to  some  neighbor's  a  wagon  labors 

Through  pool  and  puddle  and  clay  that  clods. 
190 


A   WET   DAY  IQI 

The  day,  unsplendid,  at  last  is  ended, 
Is  dead  and  buried,  and  night  is  come; — 
Night,  blind  and  footless,  and  foul  and  fruitless, 
With  weeping  wearied  and  sorrow  dumb. 

Ah,  God!  for  thunder!  for  winds  to  sunder 
The  clouds  and  o'er  us  smite  rushing  bars! 
And  through  wild  masses  of  storm,  that  passes, 
Roll  calm  the  chorus  of  moon  and  stars. 


AFTER   STORM 

GREAT  clouds  of  sullen  seal  and  gold 

Bar  bleak  the  tawny  west, 
From  which  all  day  the  thunder  rolled, 

And  storm  streamed,  crest  on  crest. 

Now  silvery  in  its  deeps  of  bronze 
The  new  moon  fills  its  sphere; 

And  point  by  point  the  darkness  dons 
Its  pale  stars  there  and  here. 

But  still  behind  the  moon  and  stars, 

The  peace  of  heaven,  remains 
Suspicion  of  the  wrath  that  wars, 

That  Nature  now  restrains. 
192 


AFTER   STORM  193 

As,  lined  'neath  tiger  eyelids,  glare 
The  wild-beast  eyes  that  sleep, 

So  smoulders  in  its  sunset  lair 
The  rage  that  rent  the  deep. 


SUNSET  ON  THE   RIVER 

I 

A  SEA  of  onyx  are  the  skies, 

Cloud-islanded  with  fire; 
Such  nacre-colored  flame  as  dyes 

A  sea-shell's  rosy  spire; 
And  at  its  edge  one  star  sinks  slow, 
Burning,  into  the  overglow. 

II 

Save  for  the  cricket  in  the  grass, 
Or  passing  bird  that  twitters, 

The  world  is  hushed.     Like  liquid  glass 
The  soundless  river  glitters 

Between  the  hills  that  hug  and  hold 

Its  beauty  like  a  hoop  of  gold. 
194 


SUNSET   ON  THE   RIVER  195 

III 

The  glory  deepens;  and,  meseems, 

A  vasty  canvas,  painted 
With  revelations  of  God's  dreams 

And  visions  symbol-sainted, 
The  west  is,  that  each  night-cowled  hill 
Kneels  down  before  in  worship  still. 

IV 

There  is  no  thing  to  wake  unrest; 

No  sight  or  sound  to  jangle 
The  peace  that  evening  in  the  breast 

Brings,  smoothing  out  the  tangle 
Of  gnarls  and  knots  of  care  and  strife 
That  snarl  the  colored  cord  of  life. 


THE   RUE-ANEMONE 

UNDER  an  oak-tree  in  a  woodland,  where 

The  dreaming  Spring  had  dropped  it  from  her 

hair, 

I  found  a  flower,  through  which  I  seemed  to  gaze 
Beyond  the  world  and  see  what  no  man  dare 
Behold  and  live — the  myths  of  bygone  days — 
Diana  and  Endymion,  and  the  bare 
Slim  beauty  of  the  boy  whom  Echo  wooed ; 
And  Hyacinth  us  whom  Apollo  dewed 
With  love  and  death:  and  Daphne,  ever  fair; 
And  that  reed-slender  girl  whom  Pan  pursued. 

I  stood  and  gazed  and  through  it  seemed  to  see 
The  Dryad  dancing  by  the  forest  tree, 

Her  hair  wild  blown:  the  Faun  with  listening  ear, 
196 


THE   RUE-ANEMONE 

Deep  in  the  boscage,  kneeling  on  one  knee, 
Watching  the  wandered  Oread  draw  near, 
Her  wild  heart  beating  like  a  honey-bee 
Within  a  rose.  —  All,  all  the  myths  of  old, 
All,  all  the  bright  shapes  of  the  Age  of  Gold, 
Peopling  the  wonder-worlds  of  Poetry, 
Through  it  I  seemed  in  fancy  to  behold. 


What  other  flower,  that,  fashioned  like  a  star, 
Draws  its  frail  life  from  earth  and  braves  the  war 
Of  all  the  heavens,  can  suggest  the  dreams 
That  this  suggests?  in  which  no  trace  of  mar 
Or  soil  exists:  where  stainless  innocence  seems 
Enshrined;  and  where,  beyond  our  vision  far, 
That  inaccessible  beauty,  which  the  heart 
Worships  as  truth  and  holiness  and  art, 
Is  symbolized;  wherein  embodied  are 
The  things  that  make  the  soul's  immortal  part. 


TABERNACLES 

THE  little  tents  the  wildflowers  raise 
Are  tabernacles  where  Love  prays 
And  Beauty  preaches  all  the  days. 

I  walk  the  woodland  through  and  through, 
And  everywhere  I  see  their  blue 
And  gold  where  I  may  worship  too. 

All  hearts  unto  their  inmost  shrine 
Of  fragrance  they  invite;  and  mine 
Enters  and  sees  the  All  Divine. 

I  hark;  and  with  some  inward  ear 
Soft  words  of  praise  and  prayer  I  hear, 

And  bow  my  head  and  have  no  fear. 
198 


TABERNACLES  199 

For  God  is  present  as  I  see 
In  them ;  and  gazes  out  at  me 
Kneeling  to  His  divinity. 

Oh,  holiness  that  Nature  knows, 

That  dwells  within  each  thing  that  grows, 

Vestured  with  dreams  as  is  the  rose 

With  perfume!  whereof  all  things  preach — 
The  birds,  the  brooks,  the  leaves,  that  reach 
Our  hearts  and  souls  with  loving  speech ; 

That  makes  a  tabernacle  of 

The  flowers ;  whose  priests  are  Truth  and  Love, 

Who  help  our  souls  to  rise  above 

The  Earth  and  that  which  we  name  sin 

Unto  the  knowledge  that  is  kin 

To  Heaven,  to  which  at  last  we  win. 


REVEALMENT 

A  SENSE  of  sadness  in  the  golden  air, 
A  pensiveness,  that  has  no  part  in  care, 

As  if  the  Season,  by  some  woodland  pool, 
Braiding  the  early  blossoms  in  her  hair, 
Seeing  her  loveliness  reflected  there, 

Had  sighed  to  find  herself  so  beautiful. 

A  breathlessness,  a  feeling  as  of  fear, 
Holy  and  dim  as  of  a  mystery  near, 

As  if  the  World  about  us  listening  went, 
With  lifted  finger,  and  hand-hollowed  ear, 
Hearkening  a  music  that  we  cannot  hear, 

Haunting  the  quickening  earth  and  firmament. 

A  prescience  of  the  soul  that  has  no  name, 

Expectancy  that  is  both  wild  and  tame, 
200 


REVEALMENT  2OI 

As  if  the  Earth,  from  out  its  azure  ring 

Of  heavens,  looked  to  see,  as  white  as  flame, — 
As    Perseus    once    to    chained    Andromeda 
came, — 

The  swift,  divine  revealment  of  the  Spring. 


THE    CAT-BIRD 


THE  tufted  gold  of  the  sassafras, 

And  the  gold  of  the  spicewood-bush, 
Bewilder  the  ways  of  the  forest  pass, 

And  brighten  the  underbrush: 
The  white-starred  drifts  of  the  wild-plum  tree, 

And  the  haw  with  its  pearly  plumes, 
And  the  redbud,  misted  rosily, 

Dazzle  the  woodland  glooms. 

II 

And  I  hear  the  song  of  the  cat-bird  wake 
I'  the  boughs  o'  the  gnarled  wild-crab, 
Or  there  where  the  snows  of  the  dogwood  shake 

That  the  silvery  sunbeams  stab : 
202 


THE   CAT-BIRD      .  2O3 

And  it  seems  to  me  that  a  magic  lies 
In  the  crystal  sweet  of  its  notes, 

That  a  myriad  blossoms  open  their  eyes 
As  its  strain  above  them  floats. 

Ill 

I  see  the  bluebell's  blue  unclose, 

And  the  trillium's  stainless  white; 
The  bird-foot  violet's  purple  and  rose, 

And  the  poppy,  golden-bright! 
And  I  see  the  eyes  of  the  bluet  wink, 

And  the  heads  of  the  white-hearts  nod ; 
And  the  baby  mouths  of  the  woodland  pink 

And  the  sorrel  salute  the  sod. 

IV 

And  this,  meseems,  does  the  cat-bird  say, 
As  the  blossoms  crowd  i'  the  sun:— 

"  Up,  up!  and  out!  oh,  out  and  away! 
Up,  up!  and  out,  each  one! 


204  THE  CAT-BIRD 

Sweethearts!    sweethearts!    oh,    sweet,    sweet, 

sweet! 

Come  listen  and  hark  to  me! 
The  Spring,  the  Spring,  with  her  fragrant  feet, 
Is  passing  this  way! — Oh,  hark  to  the  beat 
Of  her  bee-like  heart! — Oh,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet! 
Come !  open  your  eyes  and  see ! 
See,  see,  see!  " 


VAGABONDS 


IT  's  ho,  it  's  ho!  when  hawtrees  blow 
Among  the  hills  that  Springtime  thrills; 
When  huckleberries,  row  on  row, 
Hang  out  their  blossom-bells  of  snow 
Around  the  rills  that  music  fills: 

When  hawtrees  blow 

Among  the  hills, 
It  's  ho,  it  's  ho!  oh,  let  us  go, 
My  love  and  I,  where  fancy  wills. 

II 

It  's  hey,  it  's  hey!  when  daisies  sway 
Among  the  meads  where  Summer  speeds; 
When  ripeness  bends  each  fruited  spray, 

And  harvest  wafts  adown  the  day 
205 


206  VAGABONDS 

The  feathered  seeds  of  golden  weeds: 

When  daisies  sway 

Among  the  meads, 
It 's  hey,  it  's  hey!  oh,  let  's  away, 
My  heart  and  I,  where  longing  leads. 

Ill 

It  's  ay,  it  's  ay!  when  red  leaves  fly, 
And  strew  the  ways  where  Autumn  strays ; 
When  'round  the  beech  and  chestnut  lie 
The  sturdy  burs,  and  creeks  run  dry, 
And  frosts  and  haze  turn  golds  to  grays: 

When  red  leaves  fly 

And  strew  the  ways, 
It  's  ay,  it  's  ay!  oh,  let  us  hie, 
My  love  and  I,  where  dreaming  says. 

IV 

Wassail!  wassail!  when  snow  and  hail 
Make  white  the  lands  where  Winter  stands; 


VAGABONDS  2O7 

When  wild  winds  from  the  forests  flail 
The  last  dead  leaves,  and,  in  the  gale, 
The  trees  wring  hands  in  ghostly  bands : 

When  snow  and  hail 

Make  white  the  lands, 
Wassail,  wassail !  oh,  let  us  trail, 
My  heart  and  I,  where  love  commands. 


NOCTURNE 

A  DISC  of  violet  blue, 

Rimmed  with  a  thorn  of  fire, 

The  new  moon  hangs  in  a  sky  of  dew; 

And  under  the  vines,  where  the  sunset's  hue 

Is  blent  with  blossoms,  first  one,  then  two, 

Begins  the  cricket's  choir. 

Bright  blurs  of  golden  white, 

And  points  of  silvery  glimmer, 

The  first  stars  wink  in  the  web  of  night; 

And  through  the  flowers  the  moths  take  flight, 

In  the  honeysuckle-colored  light, 

Where  the  shadowy  shrubs  grow  dimmer. 

Soft  through  the  dim  and  dying  eve, 

Sweet  through  the  dusk  and  dew, 
208 


NOCTURNE  209 

Come,  while  the  hours  their  witchcraft  weave, 
Dim  in  the  House  of  the  Soul's-Sweet-Leave, 
Here  in  the  pale  and  perfumed  eve, 
Here  where  I  wait  for  you. 

A  great,  dark,  radiant  rose, 

Dripping  with  starry  glower, 

Is  the  night,  whose  bosom  overflows 

With  the  balsam  musk  of  the  breeze  that  blows 

Into  the  heart,  as  each  one  knows, 

Of  every  nodding  flower. 

A  voice  that  sighs  and  sighs, 

Then  whispers  like  a  spirit, 

Is  the  wind  that  kisses  the  drowsy  eyes 

Of  the  primrose  open,  and,  rocking,  lies 

In  the  lily's  cradle,  and  soft  unties 

The  rosebud's  crimson  near  it. 

Sweet  through  the  deep  and  dreaming  night, 

Soft  through  the  dark  and  dew, 
14 


210  NOCTURNE 

Come,  where  the  moments  their  magic  write, 
Deep  in  the  Book  of  the  Heart's-Delight, 
Here  in  the  hushed  and  haunted  night, 
Here  where  I  wait  for  you. 


LUTE   SONG 

WHAT  will  you  send  her, 
What  will  you  tell  her, 

That  shall  unbend  her, 
That  shall  compel  her? 

Love,  that  shall  fold  her 
So  naught  can  sever; 

Truth,  that  shall  hold  her 
Ever  and  ever. 

What  will  you  do  then 

So  she  '11  ne'er  grieve  you? 

Knowing  you  true  then 
Never  will  leave  you? 

211 


212  LUTE   SONG 

I  '11  lay  before  her, 
There  in  her  bower, 

Aye  to  adore  her, 

My  heart  like  a  flower. 


DAYS   COME   AND   GO 

LEAVES  fall  and  flowers  fade, 

Days  come  and  go: 
Now  is  sweet  Summer  laid 
Low  in  her  leafy  glade, 
Low  like  a  fragrant  maid, 

Low,  low,  ah,  low. 

Tears  fall  and  eyelids  ache, 

Hearts  overflow: 
Here  for  our  dead  love's  sake 
Let  us  our  farewells  make — 
Will  he  again  awake? 

Ah,  no,  no,  no. 

Winds  sigh  and  skies  are  gray, 

Days  come  and  go : 
213 


214  DAYS  COME  AND   GO 

Wild  birds  are  flown  away: 
Where  are  the  blooms  of  May? — 
Dead,  dead,  this  many  a  day, 
Under  the  snow. 

Lips  sigh  and  cheeks  are  pale, 

Hearts  overflow: 
Will  not  some  song  or  tale, 
Kiss,  or  a  flower  frail, 
With  our  dead  love  avail? — 

Ah,  no,  no,  no. 


THE   WANING   YEAR 

A  SENSE  of  something  that  is  sad  and  strange; 

Of  something  that  is  felt  as  death  is  felt,— 
As  shadows,  phantoms,  in  a  haunted  grange, — 

Around  me  seems  to  melt. 

It  rises,  so  it  seems,  from  the  decay 

Of  the  dim  woods;  from  withered  leaves  and 

weeds, 
And  dead  flowers  hanging  by  the  woodland  way 

Sad,  hoary  heads  of  seeds. 

And  from  the  cricket's  song, — so  feeble  now 
'T  is  like  a  sound  heard  in  the  heart,  a  call 
Dreamier  than  dreams; — and  from  the  shaken 
bough, 

From  which  the  acorns  fall. 
215 


2l6  THE  WANING  YEAR 

From  scents  and  sounds  it  rises,  sadly  slow, 
This  presence,  that  hath  neither  face  nor  form ; 

That  in  the  woods  sits  like  demented  woe, 
Whispering  of  wreck  and  storm. 

A   presence  wrought  of  melancholy  grief, 

And  dreams  that  die;  that,  in  the  streaming 
night, 

I  shall  behold,  like  some  fantastic  leaf, 
Beat  at  my  window's  light. 

That  I  shall  hear,  outside  my  storm-lashed  door, 
Moan  like  the  wind  in  some  rain-tortured  tree ; 

Or  'round  my  roof  and  down  my  chimney  roar 
All  the  wild  night  to  me. 


GRAY    NOVEMBER 

I 

DULL,  dimly  gleaming, 

The  dawn  looks  downward 

Where,  flowing  townward, 

The  river,  steaming 

With  mist,  is  hidden: 

Each  bush,  that  huddles 
Beside  the   road, —  the   rain   has    pooled   with 

puddles, — 
Seems,  in  the  fog,  a  hag  or  thing  hag-ridden. 

II 

Where  leaves  hang  tattered 
In  forest  tangles, 

And  woodway  angles 
217 


2l8  GRAY   NOVEMBER 

Are  acorn-scattered, 

Coughing  and  yawning 

The  woodsman  slouches, 

Or  stands  as  silent  as  the  hound  that  crouches 
Beside  him,  ghostly  in  the  mist-drenched  dawn 
ing. 

Ill 

Through  roses,  rotting 

Within  the  garden, — 

With  blooms,  that  harden, 

Of  marigolds,  knotting, 

(Each  one  an  ember 

Dull,  dead  and  dripping,) 
Her  brow,   from  which  their  faded  wreath  is 

slipping, 
Mantled  in  frost  and  fog,  comes  in  November. 


HALLOWMAS 

ALL  hushed  of  glee, 

The  last  chill  bee 

Clings  wearily 

To  the  dying  aster. 

The  leaves  drop  faster: 

And  all  around,  red  as  disaster, 

The  forest  crimsons  with  tree  on  tree. 

A  butterfly, 

The  last  to  die, 

Wings  heavily  by, 

Weighed  down  with  torpor. 

The  air  grows  sharper; 

And  the  wind  in  the  trees,  like  some  sad  harper, 

Sits  and  sorrows  with  sigh  on  sigh. 
219 


220  HALLOWMAS 

The  far  crows  call; 

The  acorns  fall; 

And  over  all 

The  Autumn  raises 

Dun  mists  and  hazes, 

Through  which  her  soul,  it  seemeth,  gazes 

On  ghosts  and  dreams  in  carnival. 

The  end  is  near; 

The  dying  Year 

Leans  low  to  hear 

Her  own  heart  breaking, 

And  Beauty  taking 

Her  flight,  and  all  my  dreams  forsaking 

My  soul,  bowed  down  'mid  the  sad  and  sere. 


A    SONG   OF   THE   SNOW 


ROARING  winds  that  rocked  the  crow, 

High  in  his  eyrie, 
All  night  long,  and  to  and  fro 
Swung  the  cedar  and  drove  the  snow 
Out  of  the  North,  have  ceased  to  blow, 

And  dawn  breaks  fiery 

Sing,  Ho,  a  song  of  the  winter  dawn, 
When  the  air  is  still  and  the  clouds  are  gone, 
And  the  snow  lies  deep  on  hill  and  lawn, 

And  the  old  clock  ticks,  '  Tis  time  !  '/  is  time  / 
And  the  household  rises  with  many  a  yawn — 
Sing,  Ho,  a  song  of  the  winter  dawn! 
Sing  Ho! 

221 


222  A   SONG   OF  THE  SNOW 

II 

Deep  in  the  East  a  ruddy  glow 

Broadens  and  brightens, 
Glints  through  the  icicles,  row  on  row, 
Flames  on  the  panes  of  the  farmhouse  low, 
And  over  the  miles  of  drifted  snow 

Silently  whitens. 

Sing,  Ho,  a  song  of  the  winter  sky, 
When  the  last  star  closes  its  icy  eye, 
And  deep  in  the  road  the  snow-drifts  lie, 

And  the  old  clock  ticks,  *  T  is  late!  'tis  late! 
And  the  flame  on  the  hearth  leaps  red,  leaps 

high- 
Sing,  Ho,  a  song  of  the  winter  sky! 
Sing  Ho! 

Ill 

Into  the  heav'n  the  sun  comes  slow, 
All  red  and  frowsy; 


A   SONG   OF  THE   SNOW  223 

Out  of  the  shed  the  muffled  low 
Of  the  cattle  comes;  and  the  rooster's  crow 
Sounds  strangely  distant  beneath  the  snow 
And  dull  and  drowsy. 

Sing,  Ho,  a  song  of  the  winter  morn, 

When  the  snow  makes  ghostly  the  wayside  thorn, 

And  hills  of  pearl  are  the  shocks  of  corn, 

And  the  old  clock  ticks,  Tick-tock,  tick-tock; 
And  the  goodman  bustles  about  the  barn — 
Sing,  Ho,  a  song  of  the  winter  morn! 
Sing  Ho! 

IV 

Now  to  their  tasks  the  farmhands  go, 

Cheerily,  cheerily: 

The  maid  with  her  pail,  her  cheeks  aglow; 
And,  blowing  his  fist,  the  man  with  his  hoe 
To  trample  a  path  through  the  crunching  snow, 

Merrily,  merrily. 


224  A   SONG  OF  THE   SNOW 

Sing,  Ho,  a  song  of  the  winter  day, 
When  ermine-capped  are  the  stacks  of  hay, 
And  the  wood-smoke  pillars  the  air  with  gray, 
And  the  old  clock  ticks,  To  work!  to  work! 
And  the  goodwife  sings  as  she  churns  away — 
Sing,  Ho,  a  song  of  the  winter  day! 
Sing  Ho! 


WHAT    OF    IT    THEN 


WELL,  what  of  it  then,  if  your  heart  be  weighed 

with  the  yoke 

Of  the  world's  neglect?  and  the  smoke 
Of  doubt,  blown  into  your  eyes,  make  night  of 

your  road? 

And  the  sting  of  the  goad, 
The  merciless  goad  of  scorn, 
And  the  rise  and  fall 
Of  the  whip  of  necessity  gall, 
Till  your  heart,  forlorn, 
Indignant,  in  rage  would  rebel? 
And  your  bosom  fill, 
And  sobbingly  swell, 
With  bitterness,  yea,  against  God  and  'gainst 


Fate, 

15 


225 


226  WHAT   OF   IT  THEN 

Fate,  and  the  world  of  men, 

What  of  it  then?     .     .     . 

Let  it  be  as  it  will, 

If  you  labor  and  wait, 

You,  too,  will  arrive,  and  the  end  for  you,  too, 

will  be  well. 
What  of  it  then,  say  I!  yea,  what  of  it  then! 

II 

Well,  what  of  it  then?  if  the  hate  of  the  world 

and  of  men 

Make  wreck  of  your  dreams  again? 
What  of  it  then 
If  contumely  and  sneer, 
And  ignorant  jibe  and  jeer, 
Be  heaped  upon  all  that  you  do  and  dream: 
And  the  irresistible  stream 
Of  events  overwhelm  and  submerge 
All  effort — or  so  it  may  seem? 
Not  all,  not  all  shall  be  lost, 


WHAT   OF   IT   THEN  22/ 

Not  all,  in  the  merciless  gurge 

And  pitiless  surge! — 

Though  you  see  it  tempestuously  tost, 

Though  you  see  it  sink  down  or  sweep  by, 

Not  in  vain  did  you  strive,  not  in  vain ! 

The  struggle,  the  longing  and  toil 

Of  hand  and  of  heart  and  of  brain, 

Not  in  vain  was  it  all,  say  I ! 

For  out  of  the  wild  turmoil 

And  seething  and  soil 

Of  Time,  some  part  of  the  whole  will  arise, 

Arise  and  remain, 

In  spite  of  the  wrath  of  the  skies 

And  the  hate  of  men. — 

What  of  it  then,  say  I !  yea,  what  of  it  then ! 


WOMANHOOD , 

I 

THE  summer  takes  its  hue 

From  something  opulent  as  fair  in  her, 

And  the  bright  heav'n  is  brighter  than  it  was; 

Brighter  and  lovelier, 

Arching  its  beautiful  blue, 

Serene  and  soft,  as  her  sweet  gaze,  o'er  us. 

II 

The  springtime  takes  its  moods 
From  something  in  her  made  of  smiles  and  tears, 
And  flowery  earth  is  flowerier  than  before, 
And  happier,  it  appears, 
Adding  new  multitudes 

To  flowers,  like  thoughts,  that  haunt  us  ever 
more. 

228 


WOMANHOOD  22Q 

III 

Summer  and  spring  are  wed 

In  her — her  nature ;  and  the  glamour  of 

Their  loveliness,  their  bounty,  as  it  were, 

Of  life,  and  joy,  and  love, 

Her  being  seems  to  shed, 

The  magic  aura  of  the  heart  of  her. 


THE    BURDEN    OF    DESIRE 


IN  some  glad  way  I  know  thereof: 
A  garden  glows  down  in  my  heart, 
Wherein  I  meet  and  often  part 
With  many  an  ancient  tale  of  love — 
A  Romeo  garden,  banked  with  bloom, 

And  trellised  with  the  eglantine; 
In  which  a  rose  climbs  to  a  room, 

A  balcony  one  mass  of  vine, 
Dim,  haunted  of  perfume — 
A  balcony,  whereon  she  gleams, 
The  soft  Desire  of  all  Dreams, 
And  smiles  and  bends  like  Juliet, 
Year  after  year. 

While  to  her  side,  all  dewy  wet, 
230 


THE   BURDEN  OF   DESIRE  231 

A  rose  stuck  in  his  ear, 
Love  climbs  to  draw  her  near. 

II 

And  in  another  way  I  know: 

Down  in  my  soul  a  graveyard  lies, 

Wherein  I  meet,  in  ghostly  wise, 
With  many  an  ancient  tale  of  woe — 
A  graveyard  of  the  Capulets, 

Deep-vaulted  with  ancestral  gloom, 
Through  whose  dark  yews  the  moonlight  jets 

On  many  a  wildly  carven  tomb, 
That  mossy  mildew  frets — 
A  graveyard  where  the  Soul's  Desire 
Sleeps,  pale-entombed ;  and,  kneeling  by  her, 
Love,  like  that  hapless  Montague, 

Year  after  year, 
Weary  and  worn  and  wild  of  hue, 

Within  her  sepulchre, 

Falls  bleeding  on  her  bier. 


THE   ROSE'S   SECRET 

WHEN  down  the  west  the  new  moon  slipped, 
A  curved  canoe  that  dipped  and  tipped, 
When  from  the  rose  the  dewdrop  dripped, 

As  if  it  shed  its  heart's  blood  slow; 
As  softly  silent  as  a  star 

I  climbed  a  lattice  that  I  know, 
A  window  lattice,  held  ajar 

By  one  slim  hand  as  white  as  snow  : 
The  hand  of  her  who  set  me  here, 
A  rose,  to  bloom  from  year  to  year. 

I,  who  have  heard  the  bird  of  June 
Sing  all  night  long  beneath  the  moon ; 
I,  who  have  heard  the  zephyr  croon 

Soft  music  'mid  spring's  avenues, 
232 


THE   ROSE'S   SECRET 


233 


Heard  then  a  sweeter  sound  than  these, 
Among  the  shadows  and  the  dews — 

A  heart  that  beat  like  any  bee's, 

Sweet  with  a  name — and  I  know  whose: 

Her  heart  that,  leaning,  pressed  on  me, 

A  rose,  she  never  looked  to  see. 

O  star  and  moon !  O  wind  and  bird ! 
Ye  hearkened,  too,  but  never  heard 
The  secret  sweet,  the  whispered  word 

I  heard,  when  by  her  lips  his  name 
Was  murmured. — Then  she  saw  me  there! — 

But  that  I  heard  was  I  to  blame? 
Whom  in  the  darkness  of  her  hair 

She  thrust  since  I  had  heard  the  same : 
Condemned  within  its  deeps  to  lie, 
A  rose,  imprisoned  till  I  die. 


WOMAN'S   LOVE 

SWEET  lies!  the  sweetest  ever  heard, 

To  her  he  said: 
Her  heart  remembers  every  word 

Now  he  is  dead. 

I  ask: — "  If  thus  his  lies  can  make 
Your  young  heart  grieve  for  his  false  sake, 
Had  he  been  true  what  had  you  done 

For  true  love's  sake?  " — 
"  Upon  his  grave  there  in  the  sun, 
Avoided  now  of  all — but  one, 

I  'd  lay  my  heart  with  all  its  ache, 

And  let  it  break,  and  let  it  break." 

And  falsehood!  fairer  ne'er  was  seen 
Than  he  put  on: 

234 


WOMAN'S  LOVE  235 

Her  heart  recalls  each  look  and  mien 

Now  he  is  gone. 

I  ask: — "  If  thus  his  treachery 
Can  hold  your  heart  with  lie  on  lie, 
What  had  you  done  for  manly  love, 

Love  without  lie?  " — 
'  There  in  the  grass  that  grows  above 
His  grave,  where  all  could  know  thereof, 

I  'd  lay  me  down  without  a  sigh, 

And  gladly  die,  and  gladly  die." 


AUBADE 

AWAKE!  the  Dawn  is  on  the  hills! 

Behold,  at  her  cool  throat  a  rose, 

Blue-eyed  and  beautiful  she  goes, 
Leaving  her  steps  in  daffodils. — 
Awake !  arise !  and  let  me  see 

Thine  eyes,  whose  deeps  epitomize 
All  dawns  that  were  or  are  to  be, 

O  love,  all  Heaven  in  thine  eyes! — 
Awake!  arise!  come  down  to  me! 

Behold!  the  Dawn  is  up:  behold! 
How  all  the  birds  around  her  float, 
Wild  rills  of  music,  note  on  note, 

Spilling  the  air  with  mellow  gold. — 

Arise!  awake!  and,  drawing  near, 
236 


AUBADE  237 

Let  me  but  hear  thee  and  rejoice! 
Thou,  who  bear'st  captive,  sweet  and  clear, 

All  song,  O  love,  within  thy  voice! 
Arise!  awake!  and  let  me  hear! 

See,  where  she  comes,  with  limbs  of  day, 
The  Dawn!  with  wildrose  hands  and  feet. 
Within  whose  veins  the  sunbeams  beat, 

And  laughters  meet  of  wind  and  ray. — 

Arise!  come  down!  and,  heart  to  heart, 
Love,  let  me  clasp  in  thee  all  these — 

The  sunbeam,  of  which  thou  art  part, 
And  all  the  rapture  of  the  breeze! — 

Arise!  come  down!  loved  that  thou  art. 


THE    HUSHED   HOUSE 

I,  WHO  went  at  nightfall,  came  again  at  dawn; 
On  Love's  door  again  I  knocked. — Love  was 
gone. 

He  who  oft  had  bade  me  in,  now  would  bid  no 

more; 
Silence  sat  within  his  house;  barred  its  door. 

When  the  slow  door  opened  wide  through  it  I 

could  see 
How  the  emptiness  within  stared  at  me. 

Through  the  dreary  chambers,  long  I   sought 
and  sighed, 

But  no  answering  footstep  came ;  naught  replied. 
238 


THE   HUSHED   HOUSE  239 

Then  at  last  I  entered,  dim,  a  darkened  room : 
There  a  taper  glimmered  gray  in  the  gloom. 

And  I  saw  one  lying  crowned  with  helichrys; 
Never  saw  I  face  as  fair  as  was  his. 

Like  a  wintry  lily  was  his  brow  in  hue; 
And  his  cheeks  were  each  a  rose,  wintry  too. 

Then  my  soul  remembered  all  that  made  us  part, 
And  what  I  had  laughed  at  once  —  broke  my 
heart. 


THE    HEART'S   DESIRE 

GOD  made  her  body  out  of  foam  and  flowers, 

And  for  her  hair  the  dawn  and  darkness  blent; 
Then   called  two  planets  from  their  heavenly 

towers, 

And  in  her  face,  divinely  eloquent, 
Gave  them  a  firmament. 

God  made  her  heart  of  rosy  ice  and  fire, 

Of  snow  and  flame,  that  freezes  while  it  burns; 
And  of  a  starbeam  and  a  moth's  desire 

He  made  her  soul,  to'ards  which  my  longing 

turns, 
And  all  my  being  yearns. 

So  is  my  life  a  prisoner  unto  passion, 

Enslaved  of  her  who  gives  nor  sign  nor  word ; 
240 


THE  HEART'S  DESIRE  241 

So  in  the  cage  her  loveliness  doth  fashion 
Is  love  endungeoned,  like  a  golden  bird 
That  sings  but  is  not  heard. 

Could  it  but  once  convince  her  with  beseeching! 

But  once  compel  her  as  the  sun  the  South ! 
Could  it  but  once,  fond  arms  around  her  reach 
ing, 

Upon  the  red  carnation  of  her  mouth 
Dew  its  eternal  drouth! 

Then  might  I  rise  victorious  over  sadness, 
O'er  fate  and  change,  and,  with  but  little  care, 

Torched  by  the  glory  of  that  moment's  gladness, 
Breast  the  black  mountain  of  my  life's  despair, 
And  die — or  do  and  dare. 


16 


ACHIEVEMENT 

HE  held  himself  splendidly  forward 

Both  early  and  late; 
The  aim  of  his  purpose  was  starward, 

To  master  his  fate: 

So  he  wrought  and  he  toiled  and  he  waited, 
Till  he  rose  o'er  the  hordes  that  he  hated, 
And  stood  on  the  heights,  as  was  fated, 

Made  one  of  the  great. 

Then  lo!  on  the  top  of  the  mountain, 

With  walls  that  were  wide, 
A  city !  from  which,  as  a  fountain, 

Rose  voices  that  cried: — 
"  He  comes!     Let  us  forth  now  to  meet  him! 

Both  mummer  and  priest  let  us  greet  him ! 
242 


ACHIEVEMENT  243 

In  the  city  he  built  let  us  seat  him 
On  the  throne  of  his  pride!  " 

Then  out  of  the  city  he  builded, 

Of  shadows  it  seems, 
From  gates  that  his  fancy  had  gilded 

With  thought's  brightest  gleams, 
Strange  mimes  and  chimeras  came  trooping, 
With  moping  and  mowing  and  stooping — 
And  he  saw,  with  a  heart  that  was  drooping, 

That  these  were  his  dreams. 

He  entered;  and,  lo!  as  he  entered 

They  murmured  his  name; 
And  led  him  where,  burningly  centred, 

An  altar  of  flame 
Made  lurid  a  temple, — erected 
Of  self, — where  a  form  he  detected — 
The  love  that  his  life  had  rejected — 

And  this  was  his  fame. 


AT    MOONRISE 

PALE  faces  looked  up  at  me,  up  from  the  earth, 

like  flowers; 
Pale  hands  reached  down  to  me,  out  of  the 

air,  like  stars, 
As  over  the  hills,   robed  on  with  the  twilight, 

the  Hours, 

The  Day's  last  Hours,  departed,  and  Dusk 
put  up  her  bars. 

Pale  fingers  beckoned  me  on;  pale  fingers,  like 

starlit  mist; 
Dim  voices  called  to  me,  dim  as  the  wind's 

dim  rune, 
As  up  from  the  night,  like  a  nymph  from  the 

amethyst 

244 


AT   MOONRISE  245 

Of  her  waters,   as  silver  as  foam,   rose   the 
round,  white  breast  of  the  moon. 


And  I  followed  the  pearly  waving  and  beckon 

of  hands, 

The  luring  glitter  and  dancing  glimmer  of  feet, 
And  the  sibilant  whisper  of  silence,  that  sum 
moned  to  lands 

Remoter  than  legend  or  faery,  where  Myth 
and  Tradition  meet. 


And  I  came  to  a  place  where  the  shadow  of 

ancient  Night 
Brooded  o'er  ruins,  far  wilder  than  castles  of 

dreams; 

Fantastic,  a  mansion  of  phantoms,  where,  wan 
dering  white, 

I  met  with  a  shadowy  presence  whose  voice  I 
had  followed,  it  seems. 


246  AT   MOONRISE 

And  the  ivy  waved  in  the  wind,  and  the  moon 
light  laid, 

Like  a  ghostly  benediction,  a  finger  wan 
On  the  face  of  the  one  from  whose  eyes  the 

darkness  rayed — 

The  face  of  the  one  I  had  known  in  the  years 
long  gone. 

And  she  looked  in  my  face,  and  kissed  me  on 

brow  and  on  cheek, 
Murmured  my  name,  and  wistfully  smiled  in 

my  eyes, 
And  the  tears  welled  up  in  my  heart,  that  was 

wild  and  weak, 

And  my  bosom  seemed  bursting  with  yearn 
ing,  and  my  soul  with  sighs. 

And  there  'mid  the  ruins  we  sat.     .     .     .     Oh, 
strange  were  the  words  that  she  said! — 


AT   MOONRISE  247 

Distant  and  dim  and  strange;  and  hollow  the 

looks  that  she  gave: 
And  I  knew  her  then  for  a  joy,  a  joy  that  was 

dead, 
A  hope,  a  beautiful  hope,  that  my  youth  had 

laid  in  its  grave. 


UNFORGOTTEN 


How  many  things,  that  we  would  remember, 

Sweet  or  sad,  or  great  or  small, 
Do  our  minds  forget!  and  how  one  thing  only, 

One  little  thing  endures  o'er  all! 
For  many  things  have  I  forgotten, 

But  this  one  thing  can  never  forget — 

The  scent  of  a  primrose,  woodland-wet, 
Long  years  ago  I  found  in  a  far  land ; 

A  fragile  flower  that  April  set, 
Rainy  pink,  in  her  forehead's  garland. 

II 

How  many  things  by  the  heart  are  forgotten! 

Sad  or  sweet,  or  little  or  great ! 
248 


UNFORGOTTEN  249 

And  how  one  thing  that  could  mean  nothing 
Stays  knocking  still  at  the  heart's  red  gate! 

For  many  things  has  my  heart  forgotten, 
But  this  one  thing  can  never  forget — 
The  face  of  a  girl,  a  moment  met, 

Who  smiled  in  my  eyes;  whom  I  passed  in  pity; 
A  flower-like  face,  with  weeping  wet, 

Flung  to  the  streets  of  a  mighty  city. 


UNSUCCESS 

A  modern  Poet  addresses  his  Muse,  to  whom  he 
has  devoted  the  best  Years  of  his  Life 


NOT  here,  O  beloved!  not  here  let  us  part,  in 
the  city,  but  there ! 

Out  there  where  the  storm  can  enfold  us,  on  the 
hills,  where  its  breast  is  made  bare: 

Its  breast,  that  is  rainy  and  cool  as  the  fern  that 
drips  by  the  fall 

In  the  luminous  night  of  the  woodland  where 
winds  to  the  waters  call. 

Not  here,  O  beloved!  not  here!  but  there!  out 
there  in  the  storm ! 

The  rush  and  the  reel  of  the  heavens,  the  tem 
pest,  whose  rapturous  arm 
250 


UNSUCCESS  251 

Shall  seize  us  and  sweep  us  together, — resistless 

as  passions  seize  men, — • 
Through  the  rocking  world  of   the  woodland, 

with  its  multitude  music,  and  then, 
With  the  rain  on  our  lips,  beloved!  in  the  heart 

of  the  night's  wild  hell, 
One  last,  long  kiss  forever,  and  forever  and  ever 

farewell. 

II 

I  am  sick  of  the  madness  of  men;  of  the  boot 
less  struggle  and  strife: 

Of  the  pain  and  the  patience  of  waiting;  the 
scoff  and  the  scorning  of  life : 

I  am  sick  of  the  shapes  and  the  shadows;  the 
sins  and  the  sorrows  that  crowd 

The  gateways  of  heart  and  of  brain;  of  the 
laughter,  the  shout  that  is  loud 

In  the  mouth  of  Success — Success,  that  was 
never  for  me,  ah  me! — 


252  UNSUCCESS 

And  all  the  wrong  and  neglect  that  are  heaped, 

beloved,  on  thee! 
I  am  sick  of  the  whining  of  failure;  the  boast 

and  the  brag  of  Success ; 
The  vainness  of  effort  and  longing;  the  dreams 

and  the  days  that  oppress: 
I  am  sick  of  them  all;  but  am  sickest,  am  sickest 

in  body  and  soul, 
Of  the  love  that  I  bear  thee,  beloved !  and  only 

thy  death  can  make  whole. 

Ill 

Imperfect,    imperfect   God   made    us, —  or   the 

power  that  men  call  God. — 
And  I  think  that  a  Power  so  perfect,  that  made 

us  with  merely  a  nod, 
Could    have   fashioned   us   beings   less  faulty; 

more  able  to  wear  and  to  bear; 
Less  open  to  mar  and  to  fracture;  less  filled  with 

the  stuff  of  despair: 


UNSUCCESS  253 

Less  damned  with  the  unavailing;  less  empty  of 

all  good  things — 
The  hopes  and  the  dreams  that  mature  not  while 

the  clay  still  to  them  clings: 
I  am  sick  of  it  all,  belove'd!  of  the  world  and 

the  ways  of  God; 
The  thorns  that  have  pierced  thy  bosom;   the 

shards  of  the  paths  we  have  trod: 
I  am  sick  of  going  and  coming;  and  of  love  I 

am  sickest  of  all: 
The  striving,   the  praying,  the  dreaming;    and 

the  things  that  never  befall.— 
So  there  in  the  night,  belove'd! — O  fair,  and  O 

fugitive!— 
Out  there  in  the  storm  and  the  darkness,  thou 

must  die  so  I  may  live ! 


THE   FIRST   QUARTER 

I 
JANUARY 

SHAGGY  with  skins  of  frost-furred  gray  and  drab, 
Harsh,  hoary  hair  framing  a  bitter  face, 
He  bends  above  the  dead  Year's  fireplace 
Nursing  the  last  few  embers  of  its  slab 
To  sullen  glow :  from  pinched  lips,  cold  and  crab, 
The  starved  flame  shrinks;  his  breath,  like  a 

menace, 

Shrieks  in  the  flue,  fluttering  its  sooty  lace, 
Piercing  the  silence  like  an  icy  stab. 
From  rheum-gnarled  knees  he  rises,  slow  with 

cold, 
And  to  the  frost-bound  window,   muttering, 

goes, 

With  iron  knuckles  knocking  on  the  pane; 
And,  lo!  outside,  his  minions  manifold 

Answer   the   summons:    wolf-like   shapes    of 

woes, 
Hunger  and  suffering,  trooping  to  his  train. 


254 


THE   FIRST   QUARTER  255 

II 

FEBRUARY 

Gray-muffled  to  his  eyes  in  rags  of  cloud, 
His  whip  of  winds  forever  in  his  hand, 
Driving  the  herded  storms  along  the  land, — 
That  shake  the  wild  sleet  from  wild  hair  and 

crowd 

Heaven  with  tumultuous  bulks, — he  comes,  low 
browed 

And  heavy-eyed;  the  hail,  like  stinging  sand, 
Whirls  white  behind,  swept  backward  by  his 

band 
Of  wild-hoofed  gales  that  o'er  the  world   ring 

loud. 

All  day  the  tatters  of  his  dark  cloak  stream 
Congealing  moisture,  till  in  solid  ice 
The  forests  stand;  and,  clang  on  thunderous 

clang, 

All  night  is  heard, — as  in  the  moon's  cold  gleam 
Tightens  his  grip  of  frost,  his  iron  vise, — 
The  boom  of  bursting  boughs  that  icicles  fang. 


256  THE   FIRST   QUARTER 


III 
MARCH 

This  is  the  tomboy  month  of  all  the  year, 

March,  who  comes  shouting  o'er  the  winter 

hills, 

Waking  the  world  with  laughter,  as  she  wills, 
Or  wild  halloos,  a  windflower  in  her  ear. 
She  stops  a  moment  by  the  half-thawed  mere 
And  whistles  to  the  wind,  and  straightway 

shrills 

The  hyla's  song,  and  hoods  of  daffodils 
Crowd  golden  'round  her,  leaning  their  heads  to 

hear. 
Then  through  the  woods,  that  drip  with  all  their 

eaves, 

Her  mad  hair  blown  about  her,  loud  she  goes 
Singing  and  calling  to  the  naked  trees, 
And  straight  the  oilets  of  the  little  leaves 
Open  their  eyes  in  wonder,  rows  on  rows, 
And  the  first  bluebird  bugles  to  the  breeze. 


LATE    NOVEMBER 
I 

MORNING 

DEEP  in  her  broom-sedge,  burs  and  iron-weeds, 
Her  frost-slain  asters  and  dead  mallow-moons, 
Where  gray  the  wilding  clematis  balloons 

The  brake  with  puff-balls :  where  the  slow  stream 
leads 

Her  sombre  steps :  decked  with  the  scarlet  beads 
Of  hip  and  haw:  through  dolorous  maroons 
And  desolate  golds,  she  goes:  the  wailing  tunes 

Of  all  the  winds  about  her  like  wild  reeds. 

The  red  wrought-iron  hues  that  flush  the  green 
Of   blackberry  briers,    and  the   bronze   that 

stains 

The  oak's  sere  leaves,  are  in  her  cheeks:  the 
gray 

Of  forest  pools,  clocked  thin  with  ice,  is  keen 
In  her  cold  eyes:  and  in  her  hair  the  rain's 
Chill  silver  glimmers  like  a  winter  ray. 


257 


258  LATE   NOVEMBER 


II 

NOON 

Lost  in  the  sleepy  grays  and  drowsy  browns 
Of  woodlands,  smoky  with  the  autumn  haze, 
Where  dull  the  last  leafed  maples,  smoulder 
ing,  blaze 

Like   ghosts  of  wigwam  fires,    the   Month   un 
crowns 

Her  frosty  hair,  and  where  the  forest  drowns 
The  road  in  shadows,  in  the  rutted  ways, 
Filled  full  of  freezing  rain,  her  robe  she  lays 
Of  tattered  gold,  and  seats  herself  and  frowns. 
And  at  her  frown  each  wood  and  bushy  hill 
Darkens     with     prescience     of    approaching 

storm, 
Her   soul's    familiar   fiend,    who,    with   wild 

broom 

Of  wind  and  rain,  works  her  resistless  will, 
Sweeping  the  world,  and  driving  with  mad  arm 
The  clouds,  like  leaves,  through  the  tumult 
uous  gloom. 


LATE   NOVEMBER  259 

III 

EVENING 

The    shivering   wind    sits    in   the    oaks,    whose 

limbs, 

Twisted  and  tortured,  nevermore  are  still; 
Grief  and  decay  sit  with  it,  they,  whose  chill 

Autumnal  touch  makes  hectic  red  the  rims 

Of  all  the  oak  leaves;  desolating  dims 
The  ageratum's  blue  that  banks  the  rill, 
And  splits  the  milkweed's  pod  upon  the  hill, 

And  shakes  it  free  of  the  last  seed  that  swims. 

Down  goes  the  day  despondent  to  its  close: 
And  now  the  sunset's  hands  of  copper  build 
A  tower  of  brass,  behind  whose  burning  bars 

The  day,  in  fierce,  barbarian  repose, 

Like  some  imprisoned  Inca  sits,  hate-filled, 
Crowned  with  the  gold  corymbus  of  the  stars. 


260  LATE   NOVEMBER 


IV 


NIGHT 

There  is  a  booming  in  the  forest  boughs: 

Tremendous  feet  seem  trampling  through  the 

trees: 

The  storm  is  at  his  wildman  revelries, 
And  earth  and  heaven  echo  his  carouse. 
Night  reels  with  tumult.  And  from  out  her 

house 

Of  cloud  the  moon  looks,  like  a  face  one  sees 
In  nightmare,   hurrying  with   pale  eyes  that 

freeze, 

Stooping  above  with  white,  malignant  brows. 
The  isolated  oak  upon  the  hill, 

That  seemed,  at  sunset,  in  terrific  lands 
A  Titan  head  black  in  a  sea  of  blood, 
Now  seems  a  monster  harp,  whose  wild  strings 

thrill 

To  the  vast  fingering  of  innumerable  hands, 
The  Spirits  of  Tempest  and  of  Solitude. 


ZERO 

THE  gate,  on  ice-hoarse  hinges,  stiff  with  frost, 
Croaks    open;    and    harsh    wagon-wheels   are 

heard 
Creaking  through  cold;  the  horses'  breath  is 

furred 

Around   their   nostrils;    and   with    snow   deep- 
mossed 

The  hut  is  barely  seen,  from  which,  uptossed, 
The  wood-smoke  pillars  the  icy  air  unstirred; 
And  every  sound,  each  axe-stroke  and  each 

word, 

Comes  as  through  crystal,  then  again  is  lost. 
The  sun  strikes  bitter  on  the  frozen  pane, 
And  all  around  there  is  a  tingling, — tense 
As  is  a  wire  stretched  upon  a  disc 
Vibrating  without  sound: — It  is  the  strain 

That   Winter  plays,   to  which  each  tree  and 

fence, 
It  seems,  is  strung,  as  't  were  of  ringing  bisque. 

261 


THE  JONGLEUR 

LAST  night  I  lay  awake  and  heard  the  wind, 
That  madman  jongleur  of  the  world  of  air, 
Making  wild  music :  now  he  seemed  to  fare 
With  harp  and  lute,  so  intimately  twinned 
They  were  as  one;  now  on  a  drum  he  dinned, 
Now  on  a  tabor;  now,  with  blow  and  blare 
Of  sackbut  and  recorder,  everywhere 
Shattered  the  night;  then  on  a  sudden  thinned 
To  bagpipe  wailings  as  of  maniac  grief 

That  whined  itself  to  sleep.     And  then,  me- 

seemed, 

Out  in  the  darkness,  mediaeval-dim, 
I  saw  him  dancing,  like  an  autumn  leaf, 

In  tattered  tunic,  while  around  him  streamed 
His  lute's  wild   ribbons  'thwart  the   moon's 
low  rim. 


262 


ON   THE    HILLTOP 

THERE  is  no  inspiration  in  the  view. 

From  where   this   acorn   drops   its   thimbles 

brown 

The  landscape  stretches  like  a  shaggy  frown ; 
The  wrinkled  hills  hang  haggard  and  harsh  of 

hue: 

Above  them  hollows  the  heaven's  stony  blue, 
Like  a  dull  thought  that  haunts  some  sleep- 
dazed  clown 
Plodding  his  homeward  way;  and,  whispering 

down, 
The  dead  leaves  dance,  a  sere  and  shelterless 

crew. 

Let  the  sick  day  stagger  unto  its  close, 
Morose  and  mumbling,  like  a  hoary  crone 
Beneath  her  fagots — huddled  fogs  that  soon 
Shall  flare  the  windy  west  with  ashen  glows, 
Like  some  deep,  dying  hearth ;  and  let  the  lone 
Night  come  at  last — night,  and  its  withered 
moon. 

263 


AUTUMN    STORM 

THE  wind  is  rising  and  the  leaves  are  swept 
Wildly  before  it,  hundreds  on  hundreds  fall 
Huddling  beneath  the  trees.     With  brag  and 

brawl 

Of  storm  the  day  is  grown  a  tavern,  kept 
Of  madness,  where,  with  mantles  torn  and  ripped 
Of  flying  leaves  that  beat  above  it  all, 
The  wild  winds  fight;  and,  like  some  half-spent 

ball, 

The  acorn  stings  the  rout;  and,  silver-stripped, 
The  milkweed-pod  winks  an  exhausted  lamp: 
Now,  in  his  coat  of  tatters  dark  that  streams, 
The  ragged  rain  sweeps  stormily  this  way, 
With  all  his  clamorous  followers — clouds  that 

camp 
Around   the   hearthstone  of   the  west  where 

gleams 
The  last  chill  flame  of  the  expiring  day. 


264 


OLD  SIR  JOHN 

BALD,  with  old  eyes  a  blood-shot  blue,  he  comes 
Into   the   Boar's-Head    Inn:    the   hot   sweat 

streaks 

His  fulvous  face,  and  all  his  raiment  reeks 
Of  all  the  stews  and  all  the  Eastcheap  slums. 
Upon  the  battered  board  again  he  drums 

And   croaks   for   sack:    then  sits,   his  harsh- 
haired  cheeks 
Sunk  in  his  hands  rough  with  the  grime  of 

weeks, 

While  'round  the  tap  one  great  bluebottle  hums. 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  companions — they 
Who  made  his  rogue's  world  merry:  of  them 

all 
Not  one  is  left.     Old,  toothless  now,  and  gray 

Alone  he  waits:  the  swagger  of  that  day 
Gone  from  his  bulk — departed  even  as  Doll, 
And  he,  his  Hal,  who  broke  his  heart,  they  say. 


265 


UNTO   WHAT    END 

UNTO  what  end,  I  ask,  unto  what  end 
Is  all  this  effort,  this  unrest  and  toil? 
Work  that  avails  not?  strife  and  mad  turmoil? 

Ambitions  vain  that  rack  our  hearts  and  rend? 

Did  labor  but  avail!  did  it  defend 

The  soul  from  its  despair,  who  would  recoil 
From  sweet  endeavor  then?  work  that  were  oil 

To  still  the  storms  that  in  the  heart  contend ! 

But  still  to  see  all  effort  valueless! 
To  toil  in  vain  year  after  weary  year 
At  Song!  beholding  every  other  Art 

Considered  more  than  Song's  high  holiness, — 
The  difficult,  the  beautiful  and  dear!— 
Doth  break  my  heart,  ah  God !  doth  break  my 
heart ! 


268 


ELFIN 


WHEN  wildflower  blue  and  wildflower  white 
The  wildflowers  lay  their  heads  together, 
And  the  moon-moth  glimmers  along  the  night, 
And  the  wandering  firefly  flares  its  light, 
And  the  full  moon  rises  broad  and  bright, 
Then,  then  it  is  elfin  weather. 

II 

And  fern  and  flower  on  top  of  the  hill 

Are  a  fairy  wood  where  the  fairies  camp  ; 
And  there,  to  the  pipe  of  the  cricket  shrill, 
And  the  owl's  bassoon  or  the  whippoorwill, 
They  whirl  their  wildest  and  trip  their  fill 

By  the  light  of  the  glowworm's  lamp. 
269 


UNTO   WHAT    END 

UNTO  what  end,  I  ask,  unto  what  end 
Is  all  this  effort,  this  unrest  and  toil? 
Work  that  avails  not?  strife  and  mad  turmoil? 

Ambitions  vain  that  rack  our  hearts  and  rend? 

Did  labor  but  avail!  did  it  defend 

The  soul  from  its  despair,  who  would  recoil 
From  sweet  endeavor  then?  work  that  were  oil 

To  still  the  storms  that  in  the  heart  contend ! 

But  still  to  see  all  effort  valueless! 
To  toil  in  vain  year  after  weary  year 
At  Song!  beholding  every  other  Art 

Considered  more  than  Song's  high  holiness, — 
The  difficult,  the  beautiful  and  dear!— 
Doth  break  my  heart,  ah  God !  doth  break  my 
heart! 


268 


ELFIN 


WHEN  wildflower  blue  and  wildflower  white 
The  wildflowers  lay  their  heads  together, 
And  the  moon-moth  glimmers  along  the  night, 
And  the  wandering  firefly  flares  its  light, 
And  the  full  moon  rises  broad  and  bright, 
Then,  then  it  is  elfin  weather. 

II 

And  fern  and  flower  on  top  of  the  hill 

Are  a  fairy  wood  where  the  fairies  camp  ; 
And  there,  to  the  pipe  of  the  cricket  shrill, 
And  the  owl's  bassoon  or  the  whippoorwill, 
They  whirl  their  wildest  and  trip  their  fill 

By  the  light  of  the  glowworm's  lamp. 
269 


270  ELFIN 

III 

And  the  green  tree-toad  and  the  katydid 
Are  the  henchmen  set  to  guard  their  dance ; 

At  whose  cry  they  creep  'neath  the  dewy  lid 

Of  a  violet's  eye,  or  close  lie  hid 

In  a  bluebell's  ear,  if  a  mortal  'mid 
The  moonlit  woods  should  chance. 

IV 

And  the  forest-fly  with  its  gossamer  wings, 

And  filmy  body  of  rainbow  dye, 
Is  the  ouphen  steed  each  elfin  brings, 
Whereon  by  the  light  of  the  stars  he  swings, 
When  the  dance  is  done  and  the  barn-cock  sings, 

And  the  dim  dawn  streaks  the  sky. 


AUTHORITIES 

THE  unpretentious  flowers  of  the  woods, 
That  rise  in  bright  and  banded  brotherhoods, 
Waving  us  welcome,  and  with  kisses  sweet 
Laying  their  lives  down  underneath  our  feet, 
Lesson  my  soul  more  than  the  tomes  of  man, 
Packed  with  the  lore  of  ages,  ever  can, 
In  love  and  truth,  hope  and  humility, 
And  such  unselfishness  as  to  the  bee, 
Lifting  permissive  petals  dripping  nard, 
Yields  every  sweet  up,  asking  no  reward. 
The  many  flowers  of  wood  and  field  and  stream, 
Filling  our  hearts  with  wonder  and  with  dream, 
That  know  no  ceremony,  yet  that  are 
Attended  of  such  reverence  as  that  star — 

That  punctual  point  of  flame,  which,  to  our  eyes, 
271 


2/2  AUTHORITIES 

Leads  on  the  vast  procession  of  the  skies, 

Sidereal  silver,  glittering  in  the  west — 

Compels,  assertive  of  heaven's  loveliest. 

Where  may  one  find  suggestion  simpler  set 

Than  in  the  radius  of  a  violet  ? 

Or  more  authentic  loveliness  than  glows 

In  the  small  compass  of  a  single  rose  ? 

Or  more  of  spiritual  thought  than  perfumes  from 

The  absolute  purity  of  a  lily-bloom  ? 


EPILOGUE 

We  have  worshipped  two  gods  from  our  earliest 
youth, 

Soul  of  my  soul  and  heart  of  me  ! 
Young  forever  and  true  as  truth — 

The  gods  of  Beauty  and  Poesy. 
Siveet  to  us  are  their  tyrannies, 

Sweet  their  chains  that  have  held  us  long, 
For  God 's  own  self  is  a  part  of  these, 

Part  of  our  gods  of  Beauty  and  Song. 

What  to  us  if  the  world  revile  ! 

What  to  us  if  its  heart  rejects  ! 

\ 
It  may  scorn  our  gods,  or  curse  with  a  smile, 

The  gods  we  worship,  that  it  neglects  : 
273 


274  EPILOGUE 

Nothing  to  us  is  its  blessing  or  curse  ; 

Less  than  nothing  its  hate  and  wrong  : 
For  Love  smiles  down  through  the  universe, 

Smiles  on  our  gods  of  Beauty  and  Song. 

We  go  our  ways  :  and  the  dreams  we  dream 

People  our  path  and  cheer  us  on  j 
And  ever  before  is  the  golden  gleam, 

The  star  we  follow,  the  streak  of  dawn  : 
Nothing  to  us  is  the  word  men  say  ; 

For  a  wiser  word  still  keeps  us  strong, 
God 's  word,  that  makes  fine  fire  of  clay, 

That  shaped  our  gods  of  Beauty  and  Song. 


OTHER  BOOKS  BY  MR.  CAWEIN 


DAYS  AND  DREAMS 

RED  LEAVES  AND  ROSES 

POEMS  OF  NATURE  AND  LOVE    (Out  of  print) 

INTIMATIONS  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL 

MOODS  AND  MEMORIES    (Out  of  print) 

MYTH  AND  ROMANCE 

UNDERTONES     (Out  of  print) 

SHAPES  AND  SHADOWS    (Out  of  print) 

ONE  DAY  AND  ANOTHER     (Out  of  print) 

IDYLLIC  MONOLOGUES     (Out  of  print) 

THE  GARDEN  OF  DREAMS 

THE  WHITE  SNAKE 

Translations  from  the  German  Poets 
WEEDS  BY  THE  WALL 
KENTUCKY  POEMS 

With  an  Introduction  by  EDMUND  GOSSE 

A  VOICE  ON  THE  WIND 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


RENEWED  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  IMMEDIATE 
RECALL 


LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-70m-9,'65(F7151s4)458 


N°  416920 

PS1277 

Cawein,  M.J« 

The  vale  of  Tempe. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


